


Until the Sky Breaks

by MoonJunhui



Series: And So We Dream [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, But I want to see which way they go, Gen, Jihoon owns a bar, M/M, Romance, Swearing, but also love, multiple perspective, there will be more couples, what could go wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-21 02:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11348172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonJunhui/pseuds/MoonJunhui
Summary: Jihoon owns a live music bar with a group of colorful and unruly staff. Wonwoo plays piano but can’t quite seem to compose his own song. Jun’s an aspiring actor with three thousand won in his bank account.When worlds collide, Jun finds passion in the unexpected, and Wonwoo discovers dawn in more than just the sunrise.





	1. Of Milk and Puns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so this is essentially a Wonhui fic but will no doubt have many side couples thrown into the mix! It will be multi-chapter, and I will try to update as soon as possible. I tried to keep the first chapter short, but got a bit carried away (they do this to me). Let me know what you think!

Jun arrives home at exactly one thirty-two in the morning. A half empty carton of milk hangs from one hand, a dead phone in the other, and his will to climb nine flights of stairs is nowhere to be seen. 

The only reason Jun knows it’s one thirty-two is thanks to Soonyoung, whose hoarse voice greets him through the intercom before his fingers even leave the button. “It’s fucking one thirty-two in the morning. Josh was about to call the police. Minghao was picking a song for your funeral. Where the hell have you been?”

“We needed milk.” Is all Jun says. If exhaustion was a person, then it’s sworn enemy would be Kwon Soonyoung. Right now, Jun’s pretty sure he embodies exhaustion, and his enemy is therefore, on the other end of the intercom. 

“We needed—what?” Soonyoung pauses, breath crackling through the air. “It took you all night to get to the shop?”

“Get back from.” Jun corrects, his forehead coming down against the wall, bringing cool relief from the humid air. “Can you just open the door?”

Jun can hear the pout ten floors above him. “Give me one reason why I should.”

“I forgot my key. My phone is dead. I just walked for three hours…” I have no money, I have no job, it’s boiling, I’m fucking starving. With no response from the other side, Jun sighs. “Soonyoung, you’re my favourite person in the whole world and I’ve got half a carton of luke-warm milk that I will pour all over myself just to make you happy. Shall I serenade you? I will, right now, so the whole world can know our love—” 

There’s a loud buzz as the door swings open. Jun huffs. It’s too much effort to let out an actual laugh. 

Not for the first time, and undoubtedly not the last, Jun curses the fact maintenance haven’t fixed the elevator. They’ve been broken since the four of them moved in. For the price, Jun can deal with his broken window, their faulty stove, and even the migraine-inducing lighting in the bathroom. He cannot deal with the unmoving, graffiti covered, cat pee smelling, elevators. 

It is only with the motivation of getting killer calves that Jun makes his way to the top. 

Expecting, at worst, half the apartment to be on fire from panic, at best, hugs and showers of love from his roommates, Jun is decidedly disappointed. Joshua is perched on their lone kitchen barstool, draped in a tartan dressing gown. He strums his guitar gently, eyes closed. Minghao sits on the couch, long legs crossed beneath him, a book resting in his hands. Soonyoung leans against the doorway into the hallway, tightly gripping a mug. Why they are all up, Jun assumes he will soon find out. 

It is, perhaps, the most tranquil Jun has ever seen his flatmates. This is concerning. 

Minghao glances up, his long fingers turning the page as he does so. “You look a fucking mess.”

Jun dumps the milk on the bench and runs a hand through his tangled hair. He can feel his shirt sticking to him, and is more than aware of the mud at the hem of his trousers. He throws himself next to Minghao all the same. When his reply comes, It’s more of a grunt than a sentence. “My phone died. I ran out of money for the bus.”

Although it’s weak, it’s an explanation. A true one at that. In the heat of the moment, milk triumphed over the bus with Jun’s last three thousand won. Two hours later, and Jun was regretting ever being given a brain that always prioritized food over sense. 

Joshua nods in tune with his strums, fingers graceful on the strings. The melody only makes Jun’s eyelids feel heavier. “I thought you had a commercial shoot today?” He asks. Not demanding. Not judging. Just a question like any other. There’s something about the dulcet tones of Josh’s voice that always makes Jun feel relaxed. “Cash in hand?”

Soonyoung, on the other hand, pushes away from the door. It’s not that his voice isn’t nice, it’s just right now it has the effect of scratched gravel. “Yeah! What the hell? Did they not pay you again? Because if they didn’t I swear I’m going to—”

“They didn’t want me.” Jun cuts him off. 

It wasn’t his intention to sound so bitter. 

Or no, perhaps it bloody was. It only takes a simple text to tell someone they’re not needed. This was Jun’s first gig in two weeks, this was it for him. It was next week’s rent, this week’s groceries. Yeah, it was just a perfume commercial, but what did that matter? It was something. So of course, he’s going to take the bus into town, of course he’s going to reschedule an audition just to make it. Until, oh, someone with prettier hands comes along, someone with a prettier face, a nicer voice—

“Ohh…Junnie.” Soonyoung interrupts Jun’s thought with a hand on his shoulder. The simple touch expels Jun’s anger to various corners of the room. He exhales slowly.  
Jun could complain out loud, but it wouldn’t do any good. A house full of artists already understands his plight, the sympathetic gaze from Joshua confirms that much. 

Though, admittedly, Soonyoung and Minghao’s dance shows certainly do a lot better than what Jun’s trying to do, even if it is just backup. Josh at least has steady hours tutoring kids, not that that’s what he really wants to be doing. 

“Why don’t you look for a job?” Josh voices what’s on everyone else’s mind. Jun suspects this is the reason they all waited up for him in the first place, coming united on the 'we can’t pay Jun’s rent anymore' front. “Just for now, while you wait for more auditions. For the filler period. I know it’s been hard this last month.”

Jun taps his finger on his knee. Once. Twice. Soonyoung’s hand squeezes his shoulder tightly. “It feels like defeat.”

“No, defeat is when you have to decide between buying milk and riding the bus.” Minghao snaps. He uncurls, like a cat awaking from a nap, swinging his legs onto the coffee table. “Just because you’re a failure doesn’t mean you have to be a failure without any food.”

Soonyoung snorts. Joshua’s lips purse into a thin line. Whether it’s in Jun’s defence, or because Minghao’s feet are on the table, he can’t tell. 

“Alright, you ass.” Jun kicks his friend’s feet down, though he can’t help but smile at Minghao’s teasing expression. “I can’t just find a job. It’s not that simple.”

Minghao blinks. “Because you don’t have any skills?”

“No—”

“Or you’ve never worked a proper day in your life?”

“No?”

“You could be a stripper.”

“No!” Jun shoves his foot into Minghao’s thigh, coming short of pushing him off the couch only to stop and think. Actually. “You know what? I’d be a fucking fantastic stripper—”

“If anything, do it for our sanity.” Joshua interrupts, placing his guitar gently on the floor as he goes to stand. 

“You want me to strip for your sanity?”

“No! No one’s stripping. I mean…” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to have to worry about you climbing into a stranger’s car at midnight with no other way to get home.”

Jun tilts his head, one hand pulling at the collar of his shirt. As much as he wants to tell Joshua he’s being overbearing, it would probably be hypocritical, considering that Jun almost did that very thing tonight. In his defense, the car looked cool and the stranger was hot. 

Thankfully, Joshua must have instilled some sense into him, and Jun had pretended he could only speak Chinese. 

“My friend Jihoon owns this bar,” Soonyoung prompts when Jun fails to respond. “He’s a pretty cool guy…well, no that’s a lie, he’s not cool at all, but the bar—” Soonyoung mimes an explosion with his hands. “It’s off the hook, my man. It is one of the snazziest places I have ever been. Originally it was a jazz lounge, but now it’s for all sorts of performers. I’ve danced there once, you know. And there’s this singer, oh boy, don’t get me started, he’ll send your soul straight to heaven with his—”

“This is a great story.” Minghao says. “But what the hell is your point?”

Jun snorts and takes Minghao putting the book down as permission to lean on his shoulder. Minghao screws up his nose in disgust but doesn’t move.

“Oh, right. He needs wait staff.” Soonyoung throws up jazz hands for dramatic effect. “I thought I could put in a good word for you? If you want.”

Wait staff? Jun’s fingers dance a pattern on his jeans as he tries to keep himself from recalling cringeworthy days in customer service. It’s not like he didn’t nail it—a smooth tongue and a pretty face will get you anywhere, but, it doesn’t mean all those times he was shouted at were enjoyable. One can only be called a useless human being so many times before it starts to ring with truth. 

That insecurity, however, can stay hidden. Jun’s not Jun if he’s not confident. Wine? Food? Dazzling smiles? Smooth talking specials? Piece of cake. “I don’t need a good word, Soonyoung, I’ll blow him away by my own charms.”

“Because that’s worked well so far.” Minghao mutters. Jun nudges his head into his friend’s collar bone.

“Does that mean you’ll do it?” Soonyoung asks, far too eagerly. 

Alright, Jun may have been around the house the last month or so, but it’s not like he’s that insufferable to be around. Is he? Soonyoung has a glint in his eye that usually walks hand in hand with him hatching a plan. Jun hesitates to answer, teeth coming down on his bottom lip.

“How about we just visit the place anyway.” Josh suggests mid-yawn. “Sounds like a nice night out, and we could all do with a break. Jun can see what it’s like and we can go from there. What about Saturday?”

Minghao shrugs, jolting Jun up as he does so. “Sure. I’ve got nothing better to do.” 

“Maybe they’ll need a guitarist too, huh?” Jun murmurs, ignoring Minghao’s protests as he relaxes back into him. “And more dancers.”

Josh rolls his eyes. “Not everything we do is out of self-interest, Junhui.”

Josh perhaps, has innocent intentions, but Jun catches sight of Soonyoung looking overly pleased at the new plan. Jun smiles and closes his eyes, already dreaming of a life-changing call from a miracle director so that they can all forget about this by the weekend. 

***

Jun likes to think his air of mystery is alluring. He likes to think that someone will see him from across the street and wonder what he does, what’s going on in his mind. Jun can live a thousand lives in the eyes of others, whether they think him a spy, a criminal, a playboy, or Hollywood actor, it doesn’t matter. Just as long as they don’t look at him and read everything he is—or isn’t. 

It turns out, however, that mystery is not nearly as alluring as he thinks. It is not proven to him by a person, however, but by this place. 

While Soonyoung stares at it proudly, Joshua looks as though he’s ready to reach for his pepper spray. Jun had wondered how one of Soonyoung’s friends could afford to own a bar. Now, he thinks he knows why. It is robed not only in an air of the clandestine, but the scent of trash bags and mouldy concrete too. 

A sign, glowing in faint tones of blue and pink, is the only light in the cobbled alley. 

There’s a streetlight to their left, but it’s broken, and the hum from the main highway is far enough in the distance to cut the world into silence. A kebab shop sits unopened, and there’s an entrance into what looks like backstreet gambling. Other than that, the small street lingers in a state of stagnancy.

The building itself isn’t exactly inviting, with its dark brick and blacked out windows. The sign 'Seventeen' flashes ominously above a low set door which Soonyoung now gestures towards. 

“Shall we?” he beams at them, eyes disappearing into his cheeks. Not for the first time, Jun wonders why he bothered to make him put on a dress shirt. “Don’t judge— “Soonyoung holds up his palms. “It’s like us, ugly on the outside, warm on the inside.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jun scoffs.

“Yeah, Jun’s ugly on both.” Minghao says. Jun kicks at his legs. 

They follow Soonyoung down a set of winding stairs into what Jun now realises, is a basement bar. Red carpet outlines the ground as they get deeper, and there are black and white photos of instruments and sheet music stationed on the walls. Jun traces one with his hand, a rhythmic vibration from inside passes through his fingers as he does so. 

“How odd…” Josh murmurs behind him. Jun barely hears it, the waver of Josh’s voice intertwining with a rising tune muffled behind a closed door. Soonyoung grins back at them once he reaches it, a grin with bursting anticipation, as though what’s behind the door will truly blow their minds. 

Jun doesn’t have high expectations, considering Soonyoung gets excited at just about anything, and this place smells like the 1950’s. 

Soonyoung opens the door and Jun isn’t any wiser as to why he’s so excited. This place isn’t exactly the five stars of dining. It’s warm and cozy, and the smell of coffee and wine soon drowns out any mustiness that followed them from the stairwell. There’s several round booths and tables spread across a thickly carpeted floor. Colourful lanterns hang from the walls, making shadows dance as the flames flicker from inside. 

There’s a low hum of people talking, and a flow of movement from the bar and kitchen. It isn't bursting with patrons, but it isn't dead either. Attention is directly focused towards the back of the room, where a small wooden platform sits. A pianist and a singer are positioned there, lit only by candlelight, performing what, at first, feels like elevator music. As Jun stops to really listen, however, it starts to evolve into something more. 

The singer proves to be the source of the vibration Jun felt in the walls. His voice commands the room, one moment restrained, the next full of power and soul. Long fingers rise to the microphone as he glides through the melody of the ballad. 

Soonyoung nudges Jun’s arm. “That’s him! He’s the guy I was telling you about.”

Jun nods absentmindedly, his attention drawn away from the singer and towards his accompanist. 

A man, sculpture-esque in the dappled light, all angles and no lines, plays the piano as though his life depends on it. If the singer is commanding the room than the pianist is shaping it, his brows tight in concentration, hands moving with a sense of urgency. As the song rises and falls, so does this man’s expression, from wistful to passionate, his mouth twists and his eyes close. 

The tune rolls across the room, making Jun’s skin tingle. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Minghao’s tug on Jun’s sleeve jolts him out of his stare. “I need a drink if we’re going to hear Soonyoung fawn over this guy all night.”

“What?” Jun clears his throat, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Minghao stares at him, dark eyes flickering in the strange light. “Alcohol.” He says and points to the bar.

“Oh. Right. Drink, yeah.” Jun allows himself to get pulled away by Minghao, flickering a last glance towards the stage. He catches sight of Soonyoung and Joshua finding themselves a table, Soonyoung’s glittering eyes never leaving the vocalist. 

“This place is kind of crap. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” Minghao mutters once they get to the bar. No one seems to be serving and their selection of drinks is no doubt too small for Minghao’s expansive taste. 

Jun blinks at him, unable to think of anything witty to say. Anything to say at all really. 

“Are you…nervous?” Minghao asks, his round eyes widening in mock horror. “Jun, by the looks of this place, they’ll take anybody.”

“I’m not nervous,” Jun says, stealing a glance back at the stage. He’s not. He walked into this place with the mindset that he’d walk back out job-free anyway. “I’m…”

Minghao’s fingers tap the bar. He tilts his head. “Thirsty?”

“Hell yeah.” 

“Then, what can I get for you?” 

Seemingly from nowhere, a man appears behind the bar, making Jun start. He’s taller than both of them, shoulders broad and jaw strong. The way he towers over them would be intimidating if he didn’t throw them a goofy smile, eyes creasing at the corners. 

“What’s a 'Woozi'?” Minghao asks, pointing to the specials board. He seems unfazed by the man’s sudden appearance. Unfazed by his appearance too, apparently, while Jun can’t help but notice how nicely the white shirt sticks to his figure.

“Grapefruit juice and chilli infused vodka,” the man answers, leaning on the counter with one elbow. He grins. “It’s small but it packs a punch. Boss’s favourite. Gotta warn you though, not many can handle it.”

Minghao narrows his eyes. “Then I’ll get two. How much?”

“For you?” The bartender pulls on the sleeve of his shirt, lazily fixing his cufflink. “It’ll be a smile.”

His answer catches Jun off-guard. 

Minghao, however, doesn’t miss a beat. “I’d rather pay the money.” 

“I’ll smile!” Jun offers, nudging his friend with his elbow. As much as he admires his friend’s bluntness, a little bit of harmless flirtation is nothing when it comes to free stuff. Just because Minghao’s got standards, doesn’t mean Jun’s got to stick to them too. 

The bartender eyes him up and down and frowns. “That’ll be 12 thousand won.”

Jun pouts. Minghao snorts and hands over the money. As the bartender moves to get the ingredients, Jun can’t help but notice how insanely tight his pants are. “I’d look good in that outfit…” he murmurs.

“Your ass is nowhere near that level.” Minghao mutters back, eyes following the bartender’s movements, though his bored expression gives no hint that he’s in anyway impressed.

“I’m a ten and you know it.”

“I’ll give you a seven for unwavering optimism.”

When the drinks are made, Minghao meets the bartenders wink with a glare and they make their way over to where Josh and Soonyoung are sitting. The performers have moved to another song now, a little less soulful, and a little more like background jazz. Jun can’t help but notice how the pianist’s expression has changed. What was once passion can now only be described as flat boredom. Odd.

“Isn’t it great?” Soonyoung clasps his hands together like an excited schoolboy.

“Isn’t what great?” Minghao asks. “This place smells like my grandma and the bartender is a fucking sleaze.”

“Who, Mingyu?” Soonyoung cranes his neck to see whose working. “He’s nice to me?” He clears his throat. “I mean, when I come here. Which, you know, isn’t very often.”

“Yet you know his name?” Joshua points out, his head swaying to the gentle tune of the music. 

“At least he’s a hot sleaze,” Jun adds. As far as he’s aware, he can’t actually see any other staff working here at all. Mingyu seems to be both manning the bar and ferrying dishes to and from tables. As he balances two drinks and a bowl in his arm while trying to serve a customer, Jun can’t help but feel a little sorry for him.

Soonyoung wags a finger in Jun’s direction. “That’s the attitude! C’mon, this place is great. It’s got vibes, it’s got a great atmosphere. This is just the place for you.”

Jun pats Soonyoung’s hand to appease him rather than risk answering. As they start to talk—Joshua about classes, Minghao about a new dance troupe, and Soonyoung about new choreo he’s making—Jun finds his attention wandering. It’s not that he isn’t happy for them, doing what they love. Talking about what they love. He just can’t keep the bitter taste from turning words to ash in his mouth when he thinks about it. Because he’s not doing what he loves. More than that, it’s the gnawing doubt that he can’t do it. That he never will. That he’s not good enough. Not worthy enough to feel what they feel.

Jun loves acting. He loves performing. But when he gets up in front of a bored panel of casting directors, their minds already set on somebody else, it isn’t easy to remember what it feels like to love something. 

Jun finds his attention drifting back to the pianist, back to way he’s now playing a solo piece with such vigour, with such strength. That is passion. So what that he’s in some back-alley bar? He’s doing what he loves and it’s clear. The longer Jun stares, the more the rest of the world falls into a soft silence. The more Jun notices the man’s strong features, the way his dark eyebrows curve as a natural extension of his long nose. It seems, almost, as if all of the sorrow and joys of the piece are Jun’s too. For a moment, he and the music are one—

“Soonyoung!” 

The vocalist from before slides into Jun’s line of site, tearing him from his mind. Though Jun imagined the man as somewhat austere from his stage presence, what he gets is the exact opposite. He smiles a brilliant smile, eyes crinkling into half-moons, before sitting himself down uninvited at the table. “My man, you’re here again!”

Soonyoung grins. “Seokmin! How could I resist your rendition of _'She Didn’t Love Me' _?”__

__“Aish, don’t make me blush. You said that on Thursday.”_ _

__Jun raises a questioning eyebrow in Soonyoung’s direction. _Thursday? The Thursday you couldn’t meet me because you were practicing? Two days ago, Thursday? _Soonyoung smiles sheepishly.___ _

____Seokmin leans back in his chair and waves a lazy hand in Joshua’s direction. “And who are all these people? How dare you not tell me about your incredibly good-looking boyfriend?”_ _ _ _

____“Boyfriends.” Minghao corrects, sipping on his drink._ _ _ _

____Soonyoung splutters, blush rising in his cheeks. “Oh no. No, they aren’t…no one is…these are just my friends. My flatmates, actually.”_ _ _ _

____“Ah,” Seokmin grins—Jun thought his smile couldn’t get any wider, but he’s proven wrong. “The guitarist and the dancer, I’ve heard a lot about you.”_ _ _ _

____Jun frowns._ _ _ _

____Just how much has Soonyoung been here talking to this guy? More importantly, why didn’t he mention Jun? He’s obviously the most important component in their flat dynamic._ _ _ _

____“So, was it the free wi-fi or the two-for-one cocktails that enticed you down the rabbit hole?” Seokmin asks, with an air of genuine interest so endearing that Jun finds himself smiling back at him._ _ _ _

____Minghao chuckles. “Neither. Apparently, it was Soonyoung’s giant cru—”_ _ _ _

____“Actually—” Soonyoung quickly interrupts. He tilts a head in Jun’s direction. “My friend needs a job. Jihoon said there was one going, so we thought we’d come along and get the feel of the place.”_ _ _ _

____“Oh, I see…” Seokmin’s smile falls and his brows draw together. Jun finds his fingers coming together. _What did he do wrong? Did he give the wrong impression? He hasn’t even said anything and this guy doesn’t want him here? Is he that unbearable? _____ _ _

______Seokmin looks at Soonyoung, gaze pained. “Is he a bit…baroque?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______It takes Joshua half a second to groan, Minghao twenty seconds to choke on his drink, and Jun forty to let the stupid amount of relief wash over them at the fact he hadn’t screwed this up already._ _ _ _ _ _

______Soonyoung remains straight faced as he stares back at Seokmin, shaking his head sadly. “Earning money is definitely not his…forte.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“That’s just going to get him into treble.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Joshua scrunches his fists. “Please don’t.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Soonyoung’s smile starts to creep up on him. He wags a finger in his friend’s direction. “You sir, are very clef-er.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Seokmin lifts a shoulder. “I’ve been told I’m pretty sharp.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Can I kill them?” Josh whispers, closing his eyes._ _ _ _ _ _

______“No.” Minghao says._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Just a little bit?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Seokmin and Soonyoung grin at each other with matching expressions of absurdity, and Jun’s now one hundred percent sure self-interest was the key motivation in Soonyoung’s fanboy agenda. For all Jun knows, there’s not even a real job going here._ _ _ _ _ _

______He’s not sure how long the pun battle continues, mostly because he doesn’t understand half of them, but also due to the fact half his attention returns to the stage._ _ _ _ _ _

______There’s movement as three more musicians enter the stage, ending the piano players solo interlude. One boy goes to sit at the drum kit, spinning the sticks in his hands. He looks like he could still be in high school, with his hair spiked up and a t-shirt with a picture of Michael Jackson’s face._ _ _ _ _ _

______To the left, a saxophonist glides into view. There’s something ethereal about the way he stands there, long shirt billowing at the sleeves and hips. There’s nothing ethereal about the way he gazes the crowd however, lips pulling into a pleased smirk._ _ _ _ _ _

______The final member of the trio takes center stage in front of the microphone. After a moment, they ease into what sounds like upbeat trot. He’s shorter than Seokmin, but his voice is no less soulful. More than that, his confidence is electrifying, his stage presence more than Jun could dream._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Who is that…” Joshua breathes quietly. Jun’s not sure he was meant to catch his words, but he does, and goes to follow Josh’s line of sight. Expecting him to be talking about the vocalist, Jun is once again proven wrong. Josh is staring not at where the spotlight is directed, but at the saxophonist, and the way his graceful fingers play the instrument._ _ _ _ _ _

______Josh catches Jun’s stare. He straightens. “I mean…what is that….”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Jun raises an eyebrow._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Instrument.” Josh clears his throat. “What is that instrument?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“A…saxophone?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Oh, that’s right,” Josh laughs, colour filling his cheeks. “Yeah. Saxophone.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Jun grins, patting Josh on the arm. Josh has never been very good at lying. “A really good-looking saxophone. Maybe I should ask if they need a guitarist?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“No! No. Thankyou.”_ Josh folds his hands in his lap, and focuses too hard on not looking at the stage. _ _ _ _ _

______Jun chuckles and leans back in his seat. This place is odd in the way it rides the mood of the musicians. People now cheer where before they wallowed. They sing along, the vocalist encouraging them with crowd interaction. These musicians know how to work the audience and they are doing it well. Jun finds his fingers tapping to the beat, the vocalist's smile contagious. It is odd, to think such spirit is trapped down here, in the dark, where only a few people see. But they seem happy, don't they?_ _ _ _ _ _

______The pianist, however, does not, scowling as he plays along to the tune. Jun tilts his head, wondering what’s going on in that man’s mind. Various personalities have fluttered across his face tonight, through the canvas that is music. Just as Jun can play many character's, it seems this man can too._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad working here,” Joshua says quietly, eyes sneaking back to the stage._ _ _ _ _ _

______“They’ve already got one sleazy waiter, why not add another?” Minghao agrees, a finger running around the rim of his glass. At least, Jun takes that as agreement._ _ _ _ _ _

______Jun nods slowly, eyes drifting between the stage and Soonyoung’s excited yabbering. If Jun worked here, it would certainly give him more reason to come. He owes Soonyoung that much. More than that, even. The people seem like fun, and it’d only be for a short while. Maybe he could even learn some skills here. They might let him do some stage acting. Just until he found something else, of course. Until his big break. Maybe that's what all these musicians are down here for, waiting for their name to be called. Strangely, Jun finds himself easy to convince, a bubble of curiosity sitting low in his chest as he looks back at the stage. Perhaps that air of mystery wasn't so bad after all. Perhaps waiting in the dark for a little while won't be so bad either._ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S I just realized this is rather lala land-esque! I hope you enjoyed. Apologies for any mistakes, this is my first story in a while and my writing is a little rusty!


	2. Of Notes and Names

Sometimes, Wonwoo forgets what the world sounds like.

There’s a point, every night, when things get quiet. The buzz of life peels away, replaced by this one steady melody. 

It’s slow, at first, as the notes decipher themselves. Untangle themselves. Each a ripple in a quiet stream. He tries to follow the sound with his fingers, getting lost in a blur of black and white. A sense of calm seeps through his chest as his hands drift, glide, synchronize to the tune in his mind.

It’s peaceful, the feeling of accomplishment. As close to Zen as he’s ever going to get.

Until it’s not. Until doubt draws thorns in front of his eyes, clouds his brain with thoughts,  _you can’t do this,_   _you'll never do this,_ it’s _rubbish, all of it._ The tune slips and noise gets louder. There’s rough laughs of patrons and deep rumbles of passing cars. The notes morph into something urgent, _discordant_ , and he can’t keep up. Panic builds, his chest tightens, and there aren’t enough keys to ever fill the silence in his world. Faces in the crowd twist, and shadows grow, Seungkwan’s voice is _too_ loud, Jeonghan is too sharp, and all Wonwoo wants to do is slam the cover on the piano and end this carnival of dissenting mayhem—

_Breathe._ All he has to do is breathe.

Hell, he’ll never finish this piece.

Sometimes, Wonwoo forgets what the world sounds like. More than anything he wishes he didn’t.

Right now, however, the world sounds like Mingyu’s endless chattering. For that, Wonwoo’s grateful. Not that he’ll ever let him know.

The bartender sits next to Wonwoo on the piano stool, absentmindedly cleaning a glass. He’s been talking for quite some time and Wonwoo’s heard pieces of it in between intruding thoughts.

“…but I told him, if he’s always late then it’s obvious he doesn’t want to be there at all. Right? I mean, if he _really_ wanted to see me he would make the effort for once. I even prepared dinner…what kind of guy turns down one of my meals? Huh?”

“Hmm,” Wonwoo murmurs, reaching out to thumb through the set list for tonight. Looks easy enough. A bit on the plain side, but Jihoon wanted to tone it down after yesterday’s hen night saga. Wonwoo’s not even sure if Seungkwan’s alive after that, let alone able to sing.

“What do you mean _hmm_?” Mingyu hits him on the shoulder with his cloth. “I want your sympathy not your judgement.”

“I’m not judging.”

“Yes, you are. You’ve got that look on your face.”

Wonwoo turns to face Mingyu, who is now staring at him with _those_ eyes, and _that_ pout, which always make Wonwoo feel smarter than he really is. Mingyu looks tired and a little thinner, in the full lighting at least. That’s the problem with working in shadows, at night they can replace the people they are in the day. It’s been stressful for him ever since Doyoon left, but Mingyu’s the type of person simply to accept the extra work and come out at the end of the shift still smiling. Wonwoo couldn’t do it. There’s a growing ache around his temples and he hasn’t even started.

“I’m just…thinking—”

“I knew it,” Mingyu throws his head back in dramatic despair. “You never approve of my romantic endeavors. I don’t even know why I tell you.” He turns his face away for only a moment before sneaking a glance back, hopeful that Wonwoo can offer advice that will fix everything.

Wonwoo doesn’t particular like being the _advice guy._ Especially when he's got none to give. “It’s not that I don’t approve. I just think two weeks is a little early for you to start keeping track of his absences. Maybe he never wanted to go steady in the first place?”

Wonwoo frowns as Mingyu’s lips twist, his gaze turning to the ground. Wonderful. Wonwoo tries to soften his tone, for Mingyu's sake, but he’s pretty sure it comes out as strained as he feels. “Did you even ask him that?”

Mingyu lifts a shoulder, rubbing the glass a little harder. “Why is it that everyone I meet only ever wants something casual? Can’t I just assume one of them is going to stick around for the long run? Is that too much to ask?”

“Because you meet them _here_.” Wonwoo gestures to the bar. “For Christ sakes, Gyu, this place only ever attracts two types of people. You know that.”

Mingyu doesn’t listen. He never does. He slams the glass down on the piano. “Maybe I’m just not worth it. Maybe they think I’m—”

“Of course you are.” Wonwoo says it too quickly. Too convincingly. The way it lights up Mingyu’s face makes Wonwoo’s lips waver. “You just need to find the right person.”

Mingyu sighs heavily, and rests an elbow on the side of the piano. Those brown eyes may glint with the youthful mischief that makes Mingyu so charming, but there’s sadness there too. Wonwoo wants to take it all and add it to his own. More than that, he wants to fight the man who made Mingyu feel like this. The whole line of men.

Maybe he should take self-defence classes.

“Why can’t _you_ love me?” Mingyu whines. “It’d be so much easier.”

Wonwoo feigns a chuckle, as though he hasn’t asked himself that exact question. As though he hasn’t asked why he can’t seem to love _anyone_. “You know me. Married to the music.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes once before closing them. “Play something then, Mozart.”

It isn’t long until Wonwoo’s hands find themselves back at the keys, slipping into place with ease. It's as though they were crafted for this purpose and this alone. Perhaps they were. The longer he plays, the more he notices a familiar sense of anxiety dotting his skin.

_Come on, not now._ Bloody hell, Wonwoo, pull it together. Just breathe.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Wonwoo sees Mingyu’s smile lift. Sees the creases relax, his shoulders fall. Wonwoo exhales slowly, panic dispersing. There’s missing notes and a broken tune terrorizing his mind, but right now, Mingyu’s contentment is his purpose. There’s no pressure right _now._

It isn’t long before the doors from the kitchen swing open and a whirlwind of colour spills from the entrance. Considering the staff meeting officially started four minutes ago, Seungkwan is surprisingly early.

“Good afternoon, motherfuckers.” Seungkwan strides forward, a kaleidoscopic poncho hanging from his shoulders. His blond hair is wet, his words hoarse, and the dark glasses he’s sporting have pink duct tape wrapped around the middle. “Mingyu—” Seungkwan places a hand over his heart. “My darling, mesmerising, handsomely naïve Mingyu, If I ever ask you for a drink again, I want you to throw it in my face and tell me to remember how I felt on the thirtieth of June.”

“Shit. That bad huh?” Mingyu laughs, rising from the seat to finally put away the glass he’s been cleaning for the past half hour.

“That bad.” Hansol trots in after Seungkwan clutching a bottle of water in one hand and a packet of aspirin in the other. He looks far too cheerful for someone who’s going to spend his afternoon untangling microphone cords. The younger has his uniform on, only the top is inside out, and one sock is traffic-cone orange, while the other appears to have small turtles on them.

Wonwoo can’t tell if this is accidental or simply Hansol being Hansol and making some sort of statement against society. Paired with the psychedelic Seungkwan, they are quite a sight.

“He threw up three times last night.”

Mingyu winces, giving Seungkwan a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he passes him. Wonwoo, on the other hand, does not feel sympathetic at all. The pain in his head gets stronger just looking at the singer, and it takes all his strength not to turn his words into an attack. “I’d look concerned but I couldn’t bear the hypocrisy.”

Seungkwan lifts his glasses and glares in Wonwoo’s direction. “Alright, Jeon Wonwoo, Mr. _I told you to stop drinking three times_ —”

“Six times.”

“—just because you’re sensible doesn’t mean you have to rub it in. At least I know how to have fun.”

“And look at all the fun you’re having now.” Hansol chimes, shoving the water bottle in Seungkwan’s direction. “We envy you, truly.”

Seungkwan snatches it with a grumble.

“This, children, is why you shouldn’t drink at work.” Matching Seungkwan’s grumble, Jihoon strides from the shadows like a little thunder cloud, clipboard in hand. Seokmin and Jeonghan follow behind him, one tentative, the other flaunting leather pants and a tight-fitting top. Seokmin shoots Wonwoo a look that he can only interpret as a cry for help.

Wonwoo lifts his eyebrows in greeting, watching from his elevated position as their jumble of staff gather. There’s been word about a new staff member joining them, so he isn’t surprised Jihoon called a meeting. He will be surprised, however, if they can make it through this one without somebody breaking something.

“It’s called _customer service,_ Jihoon.” Seungkwan bites, settling himself down at one of the tables. “I was only giving the ladies what they wanted.”

“They wanted you crying and singing renditions of Oppa-ya?” Jihoon snaps. He has the uncanny ability to direct comments without even looking up.

Seungkwan straightens his poncho. “Of course. Who wouldn’t? It was night to remember. One of them even asked me to sing at the wedding, so I obviously made an impression.”

“I got it on video too. So now it’s a timeless impression.” Hansol adds, joining Seungkwan at the table. This is a mistake. Seungkwan makes an unintelligible noise before lunging at Hansol’s pant pocket, trying to grab at his phone.

“Just as long as you can sing,” Jihoon mutters. “Then I don’t really care. Can you?”

There’s a pause as everyone simply watches the commotion. Hansol leaps back up and out of reach, moving to hide behind Jeonghan. He throws a cheeky grin in Seungkwan’s direction. Seungkwan sighs and gives up his struggle, pulling the glasses back over his eyes. “Ask me that again in an hour.”

 “If he can’t, I will.” Jeonghan leans against the bar, wrapping one arm around Hansol’s shoulder. The other reaches for an olive from the packet Mingyu’s been sorting out. He pops it in his mouth. “You know I can do it, Jihoonie.”

 Jihoon frowns. “No, it’s fine. Seokmin’s here today anyway, he can cover.”

 “I don’t suppose Seokmin has any say in the matter—?” Seokmin asks weakly before catching sight of Jihoon’s glare. “Nope, ok, Seokmin can definitely cover. Yessir. That’s me. Just call me the coverer—”

 “Has anyone seen Chan?” Jihoon interrupts him.

 Wonwoo huffs to himself, leaning back in his chair. Although it’s strange, Wonwoo likes Jihoon. Not because he’s organized and driven, but because he makes it very clear he does not want to be around people, In a job that’s very people-orientated. More than that, he’s managed to keep this random assortment of backstreet musicians in check for more than a year, without setting anyone on fire.

 “I’m right _here_.” A somewhat petulant voice arises from the corner of the room, where, shrouded in shadow, it seems Chan’s been sitting all along. He’s got his phone in front of his eyes, thumbs tapping away at the screen even as his attention shifts. Wonwoo catches Mingyu’s eye from across the room as they both wonder the same thing. _How long was he there?_ Not that the kid would care about Mingyu’s relationship drama. If it can be called that.

 “Why did you call me in?” Chan mutters “I’m not going to be needed for like, _five_ hours.”

 Jihoon’s expression doesn’t change, unless to get even flatter than before. Wonwoo watches the way his fingers twitch on his clipboard. _Tap. Tap._ “We open in an hour. This is when you normally start.”

 Chan’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly. “Is it?”

 “You’ve been working here for three months?”

 “Nobody ever arrives till later.” Chan shrugs, turning back to his phone. “I could’ve been sleeping in.”

 “It’s four _o’clock?_ Aish,” Jihoon scrunches up his fist. Wonwoo can hear him counting numbers in his head. “Nevermind, you’re all here at least. That’s one success for the day. Everyone gets a fucking gold star.”

 “Cheolie’s not— “Jeonghan goes to point out, like the snitch that he is, before checking behind him. “Oh.”

 His _oh_ is not for Seungcheol and the way he leans against the kitchen door, one foot behind the other, hand tucked into his back pocket. The _oh_ is for the stranger next to him.

 It’s the sort of face that stops you in your tracks, so the _oh,_ Wonwoo hates to admit, is warranted. As the stranger moves forward into the light, Wonwoo takes in the curve of his brow, the soft tone of his skin. There’s something about his sharp features that makes Wonwoo instantly distrust him.

 The stranger stops still next to Seokmin, silhouette poised and elegant, uniform drawing attention to his small waist. He doesn’t give anything away in his expression as his eyes shift towards Wonwoo, glinting like coals under pressure as they catch the light.

  “Ah, good.” Jihoon says, though his voice hints this is anything other than good. Wonwoo has to agree. Adding another staff member to this rambunctious mix can only mean chaos. Then again, it’s better for Mingyu…

 “Everyone, this is Junhui. He’s our new waiter. Junhui this is…”

 Jihoon looks around the room, sentence hanging in the air. Mingyu’s got his hand stuck in a jar, and can only offer a goofy smile in Junhui’s direction. Chan’s intensely focused on his screen. Hansol’s pulling gum from beneath the bar top. Seungkwan’s either dead or sleeping. Jeonghan’s got his tongue between his teeth as he tries to get a reaction from Seungcheol, who is staring at the roof in attempt to look anywhere but the saxophonist.

 “This is everyone.” Jihoon finishes weakly. Wonwoo doesn’t blame him. How can one possibly be introduced to this mess? Seokmin is the only one that seems pleased to have a new staff member. He places a hand on Junhui’s shoulder in welcome.

 “You can meet later anyway,” Jihoon waves at the air as though swatting bugs. The bugs in this situation, Wonwoo assumes, is all of them. “For now, I’ve got a few things we need to discuss…”

 Wonwoo gathers three key points from the meeting: don’t try to sell your mixtape as a freebie with bar snacks. Don’t give customers the microphone and tell them it’s karaoke night. Don’t take a ten-minute break and come back two hours later with three iced americanos. If you’re going to do that, at least get enough for everybody.

 As Jihoon drags on, Wonwoo can’t ignore the niggling pain at the front of his skull. The pressure ebbs and flows behind his eyes, and all he wants to do is roll into bed with a good book. As Jeonghan starts preaching vocal unfairness and Seungkwan tries to change the setlist, it only gets worse.

 Junhui seems to be enjoying all of this, a strange half-smile caressing his lips. Wonwoo hates that he can’t quite read him. Is it cocky? Judgemental? How he runs his tongue across his teeth makes it seem like he’s got a secret that no one else knows. One he’s not willing to share. Those dark eyes dart around the room, landing on everyone in it at least once. The way he just watches them reminds Wonwoo of a curious cat, looking down at people it thinks beneath him.

 A chord plays in Wonwoo’s head, a stabbing, off-key chime. He reaches a hand to rub at his temple, easing the throb. When the meeting is finally done, and the staff have split off into groups to start ‘work’, Wonwoo finds Jihoon heading in his direction. It is unusual for him not to run back to his office straight away.

 “How’s the song going?” Of all the questions he expected Jihoon to ask, _that_ was not one of them. Jihoon's tone is gruff, making it clear he doesn’t _really_ want to be asking, but he needs to preface something with small talk.

 “Oh it’s…it’s…” Wonwoo winces as his elbow accidentally hits a couple of notes. “Not going, really.”

 Jihoon makes a sympathetic noise. At least, that’s what it sounds like. “Writing music is …hard.”

  _How would you know?_ Wonwoo swallows his comment. It’s not like he sees what Jihoon gets up to behind closed doors. Instead, he forces a jovial tone. “As hard as running this place?”

 “Never.” Jihoon’s eyes flick up to the heavens. “Listen, can I ask you a favour?”

 “Shoot.”

 “Can you…watch over Junhui?”

 Wonwoo narrows his eyes. Watch _over_ him?

 “He’s an actor, been out of customer service for a while. I’ve left Hansol to show him the ropes, but I just want to make sure no one…” Jihoon looks to the air as though the words he want will write themselves there. They don't, and Jihoon is left struggling. “Scares him away?”

 “What does it matter?” Wonwoo scowls, fingers pressing the spot behind his ear as the pressure in his head moves. _Actor?_ “If he doesn’t like us, that’s his problem.”

 “No, it’s not that…” Jihoon sighs. “He’s a friend of…well, of my friend. Person. Thing. Soonyoung. He’s a friend of Soonyoung’s. And I don’t want to…shit, I don’t know.” Jihoon throws his hands up, apparently giving up on this mission of trying to be a good human. “Just look out for him, will you? You’re sensible.”

 Yeah. Sensible, advice giving, background music. That’s his role.

 Wonwoo glowers at nothing as Jihoon walks away. Babysitting duty? Like hell. Hansol will do a fine job. Wonwoo watches the younger man now, excitedly detailing last night’s adventure to a cool and collected Junhui. He's still got that _look_ on his face, like a spy gathering information. Fuck, no wonder he’s so interested. Is this an experiment for him? He wants to live the life of a back-alley performer so he can milk the shit out of it on the big screen? Get some life-experience to draw on? Maybe Wonwoo will keep an eye on him, but for different reasons than Jihoon would like. To keep him from exploiting-

 Junhui laughs at something Hansol says.

 It’s a strange laugh, though admittedly musical, moving up a few notes then back down. Birdsong comes to mind and Wonwoo’s fingers instantly itch to match the notes of it on the keyboard. He draws his fist together instead, digging fingernails into palms.  _What the hell are you doing?_

Half an hour till opening. Eight hours till closing.  _Write your fucking song._

 

***

 

“And this is the storage closet. Mops and stuff live here. I think—oh yup, they do. I wouldn’t really know. Mingyu does most of the cleaning, so uh…yeah. You can use them whenever you like.”

 Hansol has succeeded in giving Jun the ‘grand tour’ of this place and now, as Jun stares at a closet full of cleaning equipment, he has officially run out of things to say in compliment of it. “Oh…yay?”

 “Yes.” Hansol shuts the closet door, satisfied. The younger man is fizzing with energy which, after having been with him for fifteen minutes, Jun realises results in him procrastinating work. “I’m sure you can hide in there if things get too much. I like to hide in the kitchen because there’s food, but you know, each to their own. You might like the smell of cleaning products—”

 “What do you _do_?” Jun interrupts. The question had been perching on his tongue since he met the bubbly worker, and it now dives with the aid of impatience. He doesn't want to appear rude, but It's pretty clear what everyone elses roles are in the establishment, and this guy is a bit of a mystery.

 Hansol smacks himself on the forehead. “Gah, right, yeah, sorry. They call me Mr. Multitasker.”

 “…they do?”

 “No. But I’m a little bit of everything. You know, I’ve got your sugar, your spice…I’m a server, kitchen hand, tech guy.” He flashes Jun a broad smile. “You name it. Even a little bit of percussion here and there.”

 “Percussion?” Jun grins. “Like the triangle?”

 “No, not like the triangle, you jerk. More like the very heart and soul of an ensemble piece.”

 “ _Oh._ So, like the tambourine.”

 “What? No.” Hansol snorts, turning around to lead Jun down the hall back into the main area. “Screw you and your musical preconceptions.”

 Jun claps his hands merrily.  “Equal rights for all percussion instruments!”

 Hansol laughs, and Jun feels somewhat at ease realizing that they’ll get along just fine. There is something infectious about his vibrancy, his adolescent bliss. He reminds Jun of both Joshua and Hoshi, two of his favourite people. Scratch that, his favourite people, seeing that Minghao ate all of his jelly snacks last night.

 “Oh my god.” The singer from Saturday night, Seungkwan, hasn’t moved from his seat. Then again, it doesn’t seem anyone’s really tried to get on with any of the tasks Jihoon set them. Even Seungcheol, the chef, has posited himself at a table. Seungkwan sends Jun a disgusted look. “They’re _bonding_.”

“If you were young and agile, you’d be bonding too.” Vernon says, avoiding a swipe from his friend as he ducks past. Instead, Seungcheol catches him around the waist. The chef hasn't said anything to Jun other than  _I'll be in the kitchen if you need help_ , but Jun finds himself wanting to trust the older man. Especially now, his crows feet appearing in his fond smile as he loses his grip on a hyper Hansol. 

“Mingyu, I need a drink.” Seungkwan moans, bringing his hands up to his throat. “I can’t bare it any longer.”

“Take a nap instead. I’ll wake you up when I’ve sung your part.” Josh’s pretty saxophone player—no, must stop thinking of him as that. Jeonghyun? Han? Jeonghan—says. He’s got a voice the colour of honey and a tongue that could get just about anything it wanted. A face that could too, really.

“You haven’t got the right range. Or the right demeanour.” Seungkwan snips. 

“Demeanour? At least I don’t look like Joseph and the technicolor dream coat.”

“ _Close every door to me…_ ”

“Don’t fucking start.”

Jun grins as the banter between them starts. He catches Seokmin’s eye from across the room and grins. The other man raises his hand in greeting. If there is something overly spirited about Hansol’s charm, then there is an unsuspecting warmth to Seokmin’s that transports everything he does. Even just a simple smile lifts the feel of the room. Quite frankly, Jun doesn’t blame Soonyoung for falling in love with him.

Not that Soonyoung would ever call it that.

Before Jun arrived here today he’d had coffee with Seokmin and learnt that the singer only actually works here part time. Three days a week, Thursday, Saturday, and Tuesday, all which Soonyoung had been noticeably absent for the past month. The little sneak had even cancelled board game night. Who does that if they aren’t in love?

Then again, Jun’s perspective on love is simple compared to others. It is just a feeling people get, and to ignore it is to deny oneself happiness. There is no _sense_  in love, not the type Jun’s had, anyway. Fighting it is simply a waste of energy. If they don't love you back, well, that's a different story.

A jarring mesh of chords jolts Jun out of his thoughts.

No one else seems to notice it. Only Mingyu glances in the direction of the pianist, but he doesn’t make a move to go anywhere near him. Whether this is a warning sign or not, Jun bites his lower lip and finds himself heading in the direction of the stage. It is only polite to introduce himself after all, and what better time than now, when the pianist appears to be having some sort of musical breakdown.

He can see the muscles shifting beneath the man’s shirt as he hunches over the keyboard, can see the tension in those shoulders. Jun loiters to the side of the piano, just watching as the man plays the same three notes over and over. It would be annoying if his fingers weren't so mesmerizing. 

“You’re blocking my thought process.” The mutter is rough but not entirely unpleasant. 

“Just play a different note,” Jun says. He’s not sure why he says it, or why he’s even here, but there’s something about this pianist that intrigues him. Provoking him is most certainly not the way to go about making friends, but Jun's tongue is never entirely his own. “Thought process unblocked.”

The man stops. He turns slowly, stare not blank, but a blazing warning, the last glow of embers on a midnight fire. “You know nothing about music, do you?"

Unease swirls and ducks through him, but Jun simply shrugs, shutting those feelings down. “String a bunch of notes together and you’ve got a song. How hard can it be?”

Pianist blinks. Once. Twice. “I’m going to turn around now and forget you ever said that.”

“So soon?” Jun pushes it with a smile. “Not keen for a battle of wits?”

“I don’t fight unarmed people.”

Fuck. This guy’s good. “I’m Jun.”

“And I’m busy.”

“You won’t even tell me your name?”

“What’s in a name?”

Surly Pianist: 2, Jun: 0. Has this face lost its charm? First Mingyu now this guy? Is it the lighting in this place? “Alright Shakespeare. I’ll just ask one of the others.”

“Great. No need to tell me how it goes.”

Jun laughs. A small, bell-like chuckle that makes the man look back. He throws him a quizzical look, one that's more confused than it is curious. Jun catches his gaze and refuses to let go. "Do you do requests?"

"Not from you."

"Try add a note to your song."

"That's now how it _works._ "

 "It will work, trust me."

"I don't _know_ you."

"I'm Jun, I told you. I come from Shenzhen, I have a little brother, I studied acting, I've got four flatmates, I've been unemployed for a month, I've been in-"

“Ok, and I'm Wonwoo!” Wonwoo says, holding up a hand to get him to stop talking. "Happy now? Did my name change your life? Aish, I'm trying to work here."

Wonwoo. Jun smiles a victorious smile. What’s in a name, indeed. "Well, it certainly didn't make it any worse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments on the last chapter, I really, really appreciate it! I know it's a bit ambitious to try and fit everyone into the story, but I just couldn't resist. It will narrow down to just a few character's at a time in future chapter's so it's easier to follow xx


	3. Of Night and Day

“So, we’ve got the soju, two burgers, a salad, some fries…and free chocolate milk for the sober driver.” Jun flashes the customers his signature grin, and the table of art students smile back at him.

 

With only a small pause to glance at the stage where Seokmin’s just finishing a song, Jun whirls around and weaves his way back to the kitchen. It should be frantic in here, considering the number of guests currently filling the music lounge. He knows he and Mingyu are certainly rushed off their feet. But where Jun expects spouts of steam and boiling oil, there isn't. There aren't orders being shouted from all directions or pots and pans being thrown. Seungcheol whistles to himself as he stands over a pan, a hand towel slung over one shoulder. He’s got his round glasses on and a recipe book to the side of his bench, as though he’s about to whip up some Saturday morning pancakes for his kids.

 

Mingyu leans against a cupboard, panting heavily, while Vernon appears to be hiding in the fridge.  “So, you’re telling me you don’t believe intelligent life exists anywhere but earth?” the fridge-dweller asks.

 

“I don’t even believe it exists in this room.” Seungcheol looks up at Jun and wrinkles his nose. “Not even now.”

 

“Jun!” Mingyu gasps and turns towards him. “Jun, swap tables with me. I’ve got Lee Minsuk’s again and he won’t stop trying to touch my ass. I swear, if he does it one more time I’m going to bite his hand off.”

 

Jun snorts and places his tray down on the bench. “If you take the table of ajumma’s in the corner, you’ve got yourself a deal. I asked one for ID, just to be nice, and now she wants to invite me around for tea with her daughter.”

 

“Really?” Mingyu instantly brightens. “I’ll gladly take old ladies and sandwiches over a seventy-year-old creep. You’re too friendly, you know that?”

 

Jun wiggles his eyebrows. “My meals just come free with a side of Junhui charm, nothing wrong with that. Besides, maybe he’ll tuck some extra money into my pants while he’s at it.”

 

“Gross.” Hansol says.

 

“If a customer’s harassing you, you need to tell Jihoon.” Seungcheol says gruffly, squinting at his recipe book. Jun’s not sure why he needs one, considering the menu here hasn’t been changed since the place opened. “We’ve talked about this, Mingyu.”

 

“I know, I know. But he’s a regular and…” Mingyu hesitates, studying Jun for a moment before finally shrugging. “Jun’s handling it. You’re the best, hyung.” Shooting him a grateful look, the bartender heads back out into the hectic lounge.

 

As the door opens, Jun catches a delicate trail of piano notes. Wonwoo’s been off that last two nights, and Jun’s missed him. His feet urge him to follow Mingyu back out to the floor, any weariness washed from his bones by the sound of the pianist.

 

“Woah there,” Seungcheol’s towel catches Jun on the arm as he goes to move. Sometimes, it feels like the chef has four arms and six eyes. He always knows where everyone is and what they’re doing without even leaving this room. “It was time for your half hour break an hour ago. Sit down and drink some water before you pass out.”

 

“No, I’m fine, I can keep going—”

 

Seungcheol growls. “I’m not asking.”

 

“Right. Sorry.” Jun doesn’t mean to squeak, but when he does, Seungcheol softens his expression. If Jun’s learnt anything over the last three weeks, it’s that this place is like a great big dysfunctional ship. Jihoon may be the unenthused captain keeping it afloat, but Seungcheol’s the lighthouse that manoeuvres them around icebergs and stops them falling overboard.

 

Nobody is quite what Jun expected here. That’s been his main learning curve, letting go of preconceptions. Though Seungcheol may look tough, there’s something about him that is just so domestic. Just as Mingyu isn’t exactly the smooth-talker Jun thought he was, but rather an innocent flirt with the heart of a golden retriever.

 

“Go sit with your friend for a bit.” Seungcheol says. “We won’t fall apart. Hansol can cover.”

 

“Hansol can what?” Hansol frowns. “You asked me to chop onions and now you want me to cover the floor?”

 

“I asked you to chop onions and you stood in the fridge for ten minutes.”

 

“I was preparing my tear ducts.”

 

Jun grins and leaves the two to their argument, slipping back out into the lounge. It isn’t hard to find Soonyoung, sitting by himself near the front of the stage. He’s got his hands cupped beneath his chin, a somewhat wistful expression ghosting his face.

 

“Hey,” Jun sits.

 

“Hey.”

 

Seokmin’s gone from the stage and Wonwoo’s left to fill the void. There’s a lot of silence in the piece he’s playing, but the pianist makes it feel like music exists between the notes. The chords are questions left hanging in the air and he awaits an answer, like a somber conversation between him and the audience.

 

Jun huffs at the irony that this invisible conversation is probably better than any they’ve had face to face. Not for lack of trying, either. Wonwoo has remained purposefully aloof. If he’s not practicing the set pieces, he’s trying write his own. Jun is always in the way. Not that it stops Jun from having one-sided conversations before shift starts, babbling on about the customers, or his friends, until Wonwoo physically gathers his music and moves away.

 

Jun knows there’s more to Wonwoo than his cold façade, he knows because it’s all there, in his music. There’s joy, there’s spirit, there’s sadness, there’s love—his crescendos speak of life, of triumph and of loss. There is truth in the notes that he plays. There is someone that Jun wants to know.

 

“Aigoo…” Soonyoung’s head finds Jun’s shoulder, as it has many times before. Whether it was Soonyoung twisting his ankle back in the final year of high school, or falling for his choreographer in college, Jun’s shoulder has conveniently always been there. “What do I do?”

 

Jun weaves his arm around his friend, a little shocked at the sudden contact, but not displeased.

 

Soonyoung came alone tonight. Whether it was by his own choice or not, Jun didn’t ask, but he’s been here since the start of Jun’s shift, nursing a bottle of soju like a miserable ajusshie. Jun smiles into Soonyoung’s hair, deciding to make it a little harder for his flatmate. “About what?”

 

Soonyoung lifts his head, banging into Jun’s nose. “What do you mean about what? Haven’t you noticed I’ve been suffering for the past month? What kind of friend are you.”

 

“Suffering? You seem perfectly fine to me.”

 

“Jinja! Perfectly fine? Perfectly—oh, the sacrifices I have made for you Junhui. Is this how you repay me?”

 

Jun blinks innocently, resisting the urge to smile at his friend’s melodramatics.

 

“With inattention? This is like the time you all forgot about my birthday and I was left sad and alone. You bring dishonour on our flat family name—”

 

“Just ask him out, you lettuce leaf.” Jun shoves Soonyoung off his shoulder, making the dancer wave his arms in a circle to keep from falling off his seat. “I’m not working here to give you an excuse to keep coming back, I’m working here to enable your disgustingly cute matrimony.”

 

“Oh,” Soonyoung dusts his sleeve and pretends to straighten an invisible tie. “Well in that case, I should jump straight to the proposal.”

 

“Definitely.” Jun tries his best to sound careless. Bored, even. Really, that look on Soonyoung’s face makes him want to cling to his friend and absorb all his joy. “You’re a match made in heaven...teen”

 

“He makes me feel like I’m going to explode, Jun, I’m not kidding. I’ve been with guys who bend me like a contortionist and they don’t make me feel as good as he does. I feel like…even if we just held hands for the rest of our lives I’d be happy, and that’s crazy, man. But imagine waking up to that smile—”

 

“You’re disgusting,” Jun laughs, poking Soonyoung’s shoulder. “Have you even had a proper, pun-free conversation?”

 

“Of course! We talk about everything. I mean, everything. The other day he asked me which shade of green is my favourite. Great question. Then we talked about the reflection of space in the ocean, and how he used to feel sad because it was like the stars were trapped in the water...”

 

Soonyoung blinks, eyes widening, as though the worst thought imaginable has just crossed his mind. “Oh my god, you don’t like him do you? Shit, you’re going to make me chose between him and you, aren’t you? And then I’m going to have to move out of the flat. But Shua will take my side, because he loves me more, so we’ll have all-out war about who takes the toaster because really he bought it but Minghao—”

 

“Soonyoung! Of course, I like him, he’s like that smiling baby sun from the Teletubbies. You can’t not like him. He's been nothing but welcoming.” Jun folds his arms. “But, why did you pick him in this hypothetical situation and not me? I can satisfy your needs too, you know.”

 

“Does that count as your blessing?” Soonyoung does the face where his eyes disappear and all that’s left is pure happiness, so Jun can’t be too mad about the blasphemy.

 

“Sure. So, what’s the hold up then? Why are you acting like a stalker when you could just get on with it?”

 

“Because…" Soonyoung hesitates. "Well, I think, talking’s all he really wants to do.”

 

“Oh. A slow burn kind of guy.”

 

“Yeah…I’m not used to—”

 

Jun doesn’t get a chance to hear the rest as a disjointed chord halts the room, as though a cat just walked across all the piano keys. It jolts the music to an end. Wonwoo sits there for a moment, shoulders rising and falling sharply. Jun’s breath catches in his throat.

 

The room is shrouded in silence. Everybody hesitates, unsure if that was the end of an unconventional song or not. Jun swallows, turning to see if Mingyu noticed. He did notice, as shown by the twist in his lip, but there’s nothing he can exactly do mid-service.

 

Soonyoung being Soonyoung starts an awkward round of applause. Wonwoo stumbles off the stage and out the back door, making way for Seokmin to glide back in, smile making any spotlight redundant. Soonyoung melts into his seat with the rest of the crowd, atmosphere easing at Seokmin’s tone. Jun, though he’d like to continue this talk, knows he’s lost his friends attention. Instead he pats Soonyoung on the arm and mutters an excuse to leave.

 

Jun’s feet _should_ take him back to the kitchen to where the others _definitely_ need help. He should rescue Hansol from the creepy old man. More than that, he should definitely not go where he isn’t wanted. Where he’ll be in the way. Again.

 

No, Jun’s never in the way. He _is_ the way.

 

As silently and swiftly as a shadow, Jun crosses the floor to get to the back door. It doesn’t lead into any sort of green room, or music space—they’d never have the budget for that—but trails out into the back alley behind the bar. According to Seungkwan, the cobblestone’s make for great acoustics.

 

Although the winds are hushed, the caress of the cool night air feels like sandpaper across his exposed skin. Jun looks great in this uniform, but it wouldn’t kill Jihoon to make the clothing a little more durable. The stars are out, but they’re hard to see in the shadow of crooked buildings. As he looks up, dots of rain fall on Jun’s nose and in his hair instead, but he’s happy to let it run.

 

Ascending the concrete stairs, Jun peers over the top in all readiness to find nothing but a couple of empty trash bins and a flickering streetlight. He finds no streetlight, overflowing trash bins, and an angry pianist.

 

Jun blows air through his teeth and traces his eyes over Wonwoo’s taut shoulders, his knotted fists, the way his chest heaves with each breath, rising and falling in counterpoint to Jun’s own.

 

“And I thought actors were dramatic.” Jun mutters. Not because he wants to talk, but because he knows if he doesn’t, he’ll end up crawling back down and not speaking at all.

 

Wonwoo turns his head, his profile silhouetted only by the light of the moon. He’s got his round glasses on, and there’s something about the way the lenses are spattered with rain that makes Jun’s heart jump into his throat. His chest tightens even more when the pianist doesn’t answer, lips drawn tightly together. Jun’s foot urges him to step back down, but he doesn’t. He pushes up from the railing and levels himself with the pianist.

 

“Did you get hand cramp or something?” Jun wraps his arms around himself. “That happened to me a lot. I mean, you know, when I used to play. I didn’t do it for long, but I still remember how. Sort of. My friend, Joshua, he’s re-teaching me…”

 

Wonwoo sends him a withering look.

 

 _God, you are so lame. Say something intelligent for once._  “I get stage fright too. It’s kind of stupid, I know but…if someone asks me just to talk. Like, straight to a camera, about anything at all, I can’t do it.”

 

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. Well, at least it’s recognition.

 

“Give me a character and some lines, and I’m comfortable. But being myself and having to…make myself interesting, it’s kind of hard.” Jun shrugs awkwardly. _Like now_ , he refuses to add. Can you get stage fright if you’re not physically on a stage? _You’re rambling again. Why are you rambling?_

 

“You seem pretty good at talking.” Wonwoo murmurs, nose crinkling in what could be an attempt at a smile. Or disgust. Either one.

 

“I would say it’s because you’re a good listener but…”

 

Wonwoo huffs, breath visible in the air. “I don’t really have a choice.”

 

After a few more moments of silence, and Jun making a pact with himself not to be the one to break it, he breaks it. “Don’t worry about what just happened. It’s ok…I mean…nobody even really noticed—”

 

“That’s because no one’s _listening._ ” Wonwoo snaps. _“_ They never listen. All they care about is what drink they want to order and which waiter looks the hottest.”

 

 _Fuck._ Wrong thing to say.

 

“Well, clearly it’s me.”

 

Oh god, why did he say that? Well, it’s true, but _why Jun, why?_

 

“What?” Wonwoo finally turns to face him, dark eyebrows as fierce as his scowl. Jun’s surprised the rain isn’t steaming right back off him again.

 

“The hottest waiter.”

 

“Oh, for fucks sake—what do you want, Jun?” It’s not the way Wonwoo seems to deny this that offends Jun, but the note of mocking in his tone, like Jun couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like not to be listened to. As though Wonwoo hasn’t been the one whose ignored him these past weeks.

 

Well, you know what, screw this asshole. Jun puts his hands on his waist. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting your nightly meeting with the trash bins?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I’m just trying to help, but If you’re more comfortable around your own people, I’ll leave you to it—”

 

“Wait—” Wonwoo extends a hand, teeth coming down on his lip as though he wants to trap the words in his mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…I’m just…I’m pissed off, ok?”

 

“I can see that.” _Are you ever not?_

There’s a pause.

 

A bag rustles.

 

A siren moans in the distance.

 

Wonwoo stirs, removing a hand from his jacket to straighten the material. “…did you just compare me to the trash?”

 

Hell yeah. A hot piece of trash. Jun narrows his eyes. “You are. What does it matter if people aren’t paying attention? You’re doing what you love.”

 

“But what’s the point if I can’t share it? People my age— they’re playing in concert halls now, they’re writing operas, they’re working for screenwriters. What am I doing? Playing honky-tonk tunes to the bingo club.”

 

“What does it matter what other people are doing?” Jun feels his tone rising. Why? Why is he _angry?_ “You’re writing music. Not everyone can do that—”

 

“I can’t even finish one song!” Wonwoo gives his head a brisk shake, locks his jaw tight, and hardens his eyes, the light of wisdom dissolving like the evaporating rain. Jun _knows_ that look, it’s the look Minghao gets when he’s retreating further into himself, his shield against the world. That look usually scares Jun, but It’s the rough mutter which follows that gets him this time, words infused with flames that smoulder beneath a metal core. “They’re right about me. I’ll never amount to anything.”

 

Jun’s not sure who has said this exactly, but the words roll across the space between them, bowling into Jun with painful clarity _._ He grits his teeth. “Bullshit.”

 

Wonwoo laughs. Once, completely without humour. “I bet they told you the same thing huh? And look where you’ve ended up too. This place is for the ones that don’t make it. Nobody ever leaves more successful then when they came in.”

 

Oh.

 

Jun’s not sure why that hurts so much. It feels like someone’s reached beneath his ribcage and twisted.

 

Maybe, for the last two weeks, he hasn’t cared about who he is and what he’s doing with his life. Maybe someone as talented as Wonwoo shouldn’t base their worth off who their audience is. Maybe he thought he’d found a safe zone, where people wouldn't judge each other on their achievements. 

 

Rain falls, harder now. The pitter patter on roof tiles gets louder. It falls on Jun’s skin but he doesn’t feel anything, he’s not cold anymore _._ “ _I_ was listening,” he manages to spit out, fist curling.

 

Wonwoo hesitates, moonlight reflecting in his glasses. “What?”

 

“I was listening. To your song. It was fucking perfect. The people that come and watch you, they may not be musicians, they may not _understand_ you, but for a moment, you give them something precious. Don’t disregard them like they’re nothing.”

 

Wonwoo blinks.

 

“Don’t fucking disregard me either.”

 

Jun turns and marches back down the stairs, hair wet, clothes stuck to his skin.

 

“ _Aish._ Jun, wait, I didn’t mean—”

 

No notes run through Jun’s mind as he re-enters the building. Only the jarring of chords remains, any melody falling distant and out of reach.

 

***

 

Seungcheol’s car smells like takeaways and old cigarettes, but it’s so distinctly _Seungcheol_ that Wonwoo finds it weirdly comforting. He shifts awkwardly, leather jacket rubbing against Mingyu’s shoulder as the two of them try to fit their extremely long legs in Seungcheol’s extremely small vehicle.

 

“Dude—how old is this thing?” Mingyu finally manages to shut the door just as Seungcheol pulls out of the carpark.

 

“Older than you,” Seungcheol growls. “So, respect it.”

 

“Apologies, car sunbaenim.” Mingyu pats the seat in front of him cheerfully. How, after a full shift of work, he’s still energetic, Wonwoo has no idea. Wonwoo feels like death, and the last thing he wants to be doing is be driving halfway across the city to some stranger’s party.

 

It’s only Jeonghan’s persuasive abilities and the weight of guilt he’s been carrying around since yesterday, that forces him to go.

 

“Wonwoo,” Jeonghan turns in the front seat to face him. “If this doesn’t cure you of whatever funk you’ve been in for the past decade, I’m personally going to come to your house and finish that damn song myself.”

 

Mingyu snorts. “Who says finishing the song’s going to make him more bearable? _Ow—_ ”

 

“Anyone who’s anyone in the music scene is going to be there, so talk to people. You know, open your mouth and form words. Ok? Can you do that?”

 

Wonwoo glares at him. “You know, you’re not the only one that can talk himself into someone’s pants Jeonghan, I just prefer not to do it.”

 

“Ugh,” Jeonghan turns back to the front. “I’m not talking about _that_. Just make connections. Remember, It’s not about how good you are at what you do—it’s about who you know.”

 

“Fuck. That’s bleak.”

 

“Either make yourself less artistically or sexually frustrated tonight, I don’t care which.”

 

“I’d prefer the latter.” Mingyu sighs, pressing his forehead against the window.

 

Wonwoo smirks as he catches Jeonghan’s eyes in the mirror. Since he started working at _Seventeen_ , Wonwoo has watched Jeonghan’s over-protectiveness grow. Although the saxophonist doesn’t seem like he’d care very much, his attention to the younger members of the staff is clear, if a little over-protective. One night a customer insulted Chan’s drumming and Jeonghan literally threatened to hit them with his instrument.

 

Wonwoo has never really _needed_ him like some of the others, but it’s nice to know he cares, even in this very Jeonghan-esque way. This party is a friend of a friends, but Jeonghan made it his mission to invite everyone from work like the socialite that he is. 

 

By the time they arrive, the party appears to have spilled out of the house and into the gardens like a lavish waterfall of silk and evening finery. Guests line the brick courtyard and steps, drinks in hand. There’s blurs of scarlets and turquoise as they flitter between groups, filling the night air with elegant conversation. There’s a balcony up there, overlooking the gardens in full view of the guests.

 

Wonwoo feels very underdressed and very tired and very _not wanting to be here._

 

“This place is insane.” Mingyu says as they start climbing the stairs. “If I meet anyone that needs a pianist, I’ll give them your number. If you meet any hot rich guys, give them my number. Deal?”

 

“Only If you agree to keep your drunk limbs in control.” Wonwoo grumbles, the noise of the party reaching them. “I’m not replacing any more vases.”

 

“I’ll try, but I can’t speak for drunk Mingyu.”

 

“Then don’t drink.”

 

Mingyu blinks at him.

 

“ _Fuck_ , what am I saying. That was very hypocritical.”

 

 “What’s new?”

 

They reach the top floor and enter the house, where Jeonghan proceeds to say hello to just about everyone, and the rest of them awkwardly float in-between groups. Wonwoo watches as Mingyu finds a particularly good looking server, and Seungcheol grabs a beer and finds the nearest couch. There are people here that Wonwoo should be talking to, hell, that Wonwoo would have given a lung to even be in the same room with. But for some, god known reason, he can’t get his mind off one person long enough to think about anyone else. Shit. Is this what real guilt feels like?

So, he spends the first hour admiring the art in the hallways, and chatting aimlessly to other ‘independent musicians’ who end up bragging about their self-produced track’s on SoundCloud. He spots Seungkwan doing the rounds and knows Jihoon’s here too, but it all feels strangely pointless. They’ll turn up to work again tomorrow, same as usual. Nothing will have changed.

 

Wonwoo starts drinking when he begins to spot classmates or old colleagues. Though he does his best to avoid them, most catch him and ask him what he’s up to. _I’m still playing,_ is his vague answer. When he feels even the slightest bit of shame, Jun’s words from Monday attack him in volleys, accompanied with a new onslaught of guilt. _You’re doing what you love, aren’t you?_

 

God, Wonwoo didn’t mean what he said. Well, he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

 

“Any luck?” Mingyu’s cheeks are flushed when he returns to Wonwoo, his eyes alight and his tie loosened.

 

“I’m going to assume you’re talking about the hot guys and not the musicians.”

 

“Correct." He pouts. "You’re judging me.”

 

“It’s a hobby of mine. And no, on both counts.”

 

Mingyu sighs. “Pity. Come join us.”

 

Wonwoo’s eyes follow to where Mingyu’s pointing, his gaze falling on Jeonghan who is talking animatedly to a young man. The man is dressed smartly, in a loose, white top that buttons up to a frilly collar. He sits with his hands folded in his lap, nodding to whatever Jeonghan is saying.

 

On Jeonghan’s other side, is a kid who’s decked out like a disco ball. Long earrings glisten in the light, bracelets line his arm, and six rings are shared between both hands. His tight black pants and turtleneck make it look like Jeonghan’s got an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. These spirits in question look vaguely familiar. Wonwoo tilts his head. “Is that…”

 

“Shua and Minghao,” Mingyu finishes for him. “Jun’s friends. Don’t ask me how he got such hot friends because I’ve no clue, all I know is that Minghao just said I look like the human version of Shrek and I think that counts as flirting.”

 

“That is…definitely not flirting.” Jun _is_ here. Wonwoo’s foot scratches the back of his leg. He knew he would be, didn’t he? That’s why he came, to apologise. Then why in the hell does he suddenly feel so nervous?

 

“You want me to introduce you?”

 

“No,” Wonwoo bites his lip. “I’m gonna keep circling for a little while. You don’t…know where Jun is, do you?”

 

Mingyu studies him curiously. “He was outside the last time I saw him. You ok?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

It takes Wonwoo a while to figure out how to get outside, but when he does, the night air is sweet relief from the claustrophobic atmosphere of indoors. Groups of people linger in the courtyard, and it takes a moment of awkwardly moving through shadows for Wonwoo to catch the sound of a familiar lyrical voice.

 

“Well it isn’t really…that big, you might not have heard of it. It’s just a handful of people. Kind of like an indie film. Yeah, arthouse stuff.”

 

“Oh really?” the shadow that isn’t Jun sounds skeptical. “Mingming said you’d taken up a position at some bar, I didn’t know you had a film on the go too.”

 

“Yeah, it’s…” Jun tugs at his shirt, which Wonwoo has only now realized is bright pink and says _I truly believe in unicorns._ Paired with a denim jacket, Wonwoo no longer feels under dressed. “It’s a side project.”

 

“Who’s directing?”

 

Watching Jun struggle is a little fun, but Wonwoo feels bad enough already.

 

“Jun-ah,” Wonwoo calls, and strides forward. “Boss just called, said there’s been a change in scene for tomorrow. We need to run over lines for the park segment instead of the baby scene—oh, sorry, didn’t see you there.”

 

The shadow looks surprised and somewhat impressed. She mutters that there’s no need to worry, and that she needs to be off soon anyway, leaving Jun and Wonwoo alone. Even in the dark Wonwoo catches Jun flush. 

 

“Now _that’s_ what I call acting.” Wonwoo says, offering a small smile.

 

For a moment, he’s worried Jun won’t answer. He’s worried he’ll get the same expression he managed to create on Monday, one of pure hurt. One Wonwoo never wants to be the source of again. Someone as blazingly hopeful as Jun should never have to look like that.

 

“ _Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there?_ ” Jun snorts, breaking the tension. Despite the fashion crisis, he looks good, hair swept back and makeup done. “What are we, a soap opera? You need to work on your improv.”

 

Wonwoo grins. “So, you’re shooting an indie film? Is that what you tell all the ladies.”

 

“I didn’t mean to!” There’s something very cute about the way Jun’s voice rises, the way his hands flail. Wonwoo tries not to notice. “She was bragging about her new project and…It just came out. I got nervous.”

 

“She was very beautiful.”

 

“Was she?” Jun holds Wonwoo’s gaze, dark eyes widening. “I didn’t notice.”

 

Wonwoo clears his throat and looks away, a mix of emotions weaving through his chest. “What are you doing out here with strange ladies anyway? It could be dangerous.”

 

“C’mon,” Jun scoffs. “You know I’m bulletproof.”

 

“Literally? Because I’d love to shoot you.”

 

Jun aims a kick at Wonwoo’s shin. “I’m guessing you spent the night brooding in a corner thinking about…sheet music.”

 

“No, most of it was spent avoiding classmates.” _Should he add it? Is it a bad idea?_ Definitely. Fuck it. “And the rest I spent looking for you.”

 

Jun’s lips part like he wants to mouth something. He snaps It shut. “I don’t think you were looking very hard. I've been standing in the same spot, hoping directors will notice me and fall in love.”

 

"Huh. Edgy. Did it work?"

 

"No. Surprisingly."

 

“Listen, I’m sorry, for what I said.” Wonwoo rubs his hands together. He knows he sounds pathetic, but apologizing is better than carrying this horrible weight around with him. He couldn’t even focus on music yesterday because all he could see was Jun’s damn _face_  looking so damn sad _._ “You’re not _nothing,_ and I do appreciate you listening…I just— “

 

"No, you were right."

 

"What? No-"

 

"Hey, I've been too ashamed to tell anyone I work as a waiter, too. I know how you feel ok?"

 

"That doesn't make it any better. Now I just made both of us feel self deprecating."

 

“Hmm." Jun stares at him for a moment. "Can I show you something?” He asks, hand darting to Wonwoo’s wrist.

 

“What? Show me what?”

 

“I think you’ll like it.”

 

“What? Jun let go—are we leaving?”

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

“No?”

 

“Good, one of us needs to be the voice of reason here. Now come on, or we’ll miss it.”

 

***

 

The last thing Wonwoo expected to be doing was climbing up three hills with a slightly tipsy Jun. He would have said no if Jun had told him from the start where they were going, but since it was always _we’re almost there_ , Wonwoo was powerless to stop the force of nature that is Junhui's energy.

Jun sings as they walk, his fingers still clutched around Wonwoo’s wrist as though he’s about to run away. The colour in his cheeks and the way he laughs as he gets out of breath is a splash of warmth in the quiet night. Wonwoo can’t help but stare and follow.

 

The view from the top of the lookout is almost worth the walk. The way Jun  _looks_ at the view is definitely worth it. 

 

The city in all its misshapen glory is spread before them like a neon gameboard. It doesn’t sleep at night, like half its residents, and it’s never looked more alive than from up here. The mountains that form a protective frame loom in the background like silent guardians. Jun assures Wonwoo that on the clear days, you can see all the way down into the valley, but the mountain is a magnet for clouds. Most days all he can see is the bank of soft rolling greys.

 

“ _Most_ days? How often are you here?”

 

“It’s where I come when I’m upset. I like to yell.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“No one can hear me up here. I don’t think they can, anyway. I like to just—scream at the sky. It’s kind of comforting. These mountains know all my secrets, but they can’t tell a soul.”

 

Wonwoo frowns. “Then what’s the point?”

 

 “Do you always need an audience for things? Jeez, I guess It makes me feel better.” Jun shrugs, gaze distant. “I figured you could try it.”

 

Wonwoo isn’t sure if it’s his resting bitch face that makes it seem like he’s pent up, or if he wears his frustration like cologne, but ever since Jun showed up everyone’s been nagging him about his disposition. Perhaps Jun just made him more irritable. “I don’t know. How about you show me?”

 

Jun rolls his eyes, but cups his hand around his mouth nevertheless. “House parties are dumb.” is the first thing he yells, ending it with a non-threatening giggle. “Someone stole my tops from the washing machine in our apartment so I had to take one of Soonyoung’s! Soonyoung has terrible fashion!”

 

“Are you telling me you _don’t_ believe in unicorns?” Wonwoo asks, aghast. “If so, then you lured me up here under false pretenses.”

 

“Wonwoo uses big words to make himself seem smarter than he really is!” The words echo into the night, and the way Jun shoots him a cheeky side-glance makes all the chill of the air evaporate.

 

“No, he doesn’t!” Wonwoo yells back.

 

“That’s it!” Jun claps his hands excitedly. “Do another.”

 

“Uhh…” Wonwoo pulls at the sleeve of his shirt. “Alright. Jeonghan said…that If I went to the party I’d meet musicians and have fun, but I didn’t do either!”

 

“He did the same to me!” Jun counters. “Only I did meet actors, and they all ignored me!”

 

“That’s their loss,” Wonwoo says, before drawing in more air. “I didn’t tell anyone I worked at _Seventeen!”_

“Neither!

 

“One guy complained about how hard it was to conduct an orchestra and I almost punched him in the face!”

 

“Oh my god,” Jun laughs, sending spirals of colour into Wonwoo’s vision. “You should have. Don’t you feel better?”

 

“A little,” Wonwoo pants. “I don’t think I’ve quite got the hang of it.”

 

“Hmm,” Jun wriggles his nose. “You’ve just got to let go. You’ve got to scream till the sky breaks. Trust me.”

 

_Trust me._

 

It isn’t the first time Jun’s said those words, and it won’t be the last. It is the first time Wonwoo finds himself believing them.

 

“I’m sorry!” Wonwoo yells, startling Jun. “I’m know I shouldn’t be ashamed of what I do, but I can’t help it. Because like every fucking artist, I feel like I’m destined for more!””

 

“Maybe we are!”

 

“Hell yeah, maybe we are! But maybe…” Wonwoo trails off, voice lowering. “Maybe that’s what I’m scared of. Maybe _Seventeen_ is safe and the world…Isn’t. Maybe I’ll go out there and I won’t love music anymore. Maybe I never have.” Wonwoo lets air out through his teeth, shoulders sinking. “So maybe I’m stuck. Maybe I don’t want to write my damn song.”

 

“Bullshit.” Jun stumbles slightly as he reaches his arms for Wonwoo’s shoulders. He places one on either side, fingers warm through Wonwoo’s clothing. “Jeon Wonwoo, you _love_ music. If you could hear yourself— _see_ yourself play, then you’d know. You made me feel things I’ve never felt before just by _watching_ you. Isn’t that some kind of magic?”

 

“Magic, huh?” Wonwoo can feel Jun’s breath, can see the freckle on his left cheek, can study the curve of his eyelashes. “Maybe _I’m_ a unicorn.”

 

“Damn you,” Jun laughs and releases his hands before promptly falling to lie on the grass. He sighs, stars glistening in his eyes. "I used to think I didn't love acting."

 

"Really?" Wonwoo gets onto his knees, grabbing a handful of grass in his hand.

 

"Yeah."

 

The question is out of Wonwoo's mouth before he can stop it. "...how come?"

 

Jun glances at him briefly, thoughts working.

 

"I mean, you don't have to-"

 

"There was a guy I liked, in my college program. More than liked, I guess."

 

"Oh."

 

"Yeah. We had a good thing going.  We were going to travel the world together, take on Hollywood, you know. Kid dreams and all that. We even put down the deposit for a place in Seoul but..." Jun stares at the sky. There's no sadness in his expression, only the shadow of memories. Wonwoo watches his chest rise and fall, finding rhythm in the movement. "He got cast in a movie. Was going to be away for eight months...and he had to make a choice, I guess."

 

Wonwoo digs his fingers into the grass, wondering what he would do in that situation. Music or love? Are they one in the same? "So, acting reminded you of him?"

 

Jun hums for a moment. "Somewhat, it was more the idea that...how could the thing I love, the thing I've dedicated half my life to, hurt me so much? How could it betray me like that?"

 

"But it wasn't the thing," Wonwoo says quietly. "It was the person."

 

"Yeah. I had to learn that. I was just using him as an excuse not to work harder, not to keep going. Because it's hard you know, doing what you love, when it seems like everything's against you."

 

"Yeah." Wonwoo's response sounds lame, but words don't form. Can't form. Not when he looks at Jun. "Yeah I guess it is."

 

As Jun falls silent, Wonwoo stretches and lies down next to him, the two of them watching the sky.

 

"Now what do we do?”

 

“We wait.”

 

“For what?”

 

“The dawn.”

 

“There will always be a dawn.” Wonwoo, ever the pragmatic, folds his arms across his chest as he yawns. 

 

Jun takes his words and tosses an answer back for him to catch with open hands. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stay awake for it.”

 

 

The sun always rises in the east. Or so they say. Wonwoo has never actually seen the sun rise. He’s caught glimpses of it’s pale, yellow light, in the morning from his apartment, but nothing more. It’s simply there, in the sky.

 

Now, red sparks and amber glows behind mountains in the distance. The turquoise ocean to the left is transformed to the shade one gets when letting sun shine through the glass of a fire opal, warm colours splintered in all directions. A shiver, not associated with the cool morning breeze, touches his arms.

 

 “What looks better?” Jun sits up and cups his hands beneath his chin, flashing Wonwoo a brilliant smile.

 

In all honesty, Wonwoo thinks the two are not dissimilar. Both are a new day, optimism, a reminder of innocence that still lives somewhere in all of them.

 

_I was listening too._

 

Wonwoo can’t quite bring himself to say it, but he wants to. Wants to tell Jun that all the times he’d come to him, babbling about something entirely foreign, Wonwoo had taken it all in. He’d heard every word, even if he acted indifferent. _You have a brother, you’re from Shenzhen, you love orange, you think Jihoon’s cute, you got rejected at a soap commercial because of your fingernails, you used to play piano, you wish Soonyoung would just hurry it up with Seokmin-_

 

“Wonwoo?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Don’t be ashamed of what you do. Not anymore. Ok?” He points at the rising sun. “That is what you bring to people.”

 

Whether he means colour or warmth, Wonwoo’s not sure. As he stares at Jun’s face, radiance spilling on his features, a single note chimes in Wonwoo's mind. Followed by another, then another, like a stone skipping across a lake. Wonwoo feels the sudden and unexpected urge to get back to the piano sitting beneath the city, fingers itching to douse the bar in a new form of light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your lovely comments, sorry for the slow update! Excuse the cheese in this chapter, I couldn't help it x


	4. Of Coffee and Cigarettes

Jun dreams of his old house whenever it rains.

 It wasn’t nice, exactly. The brick work on the outside, once a clear white, looked yellow with years of smoke and grime. The windows didn’t quite open far enough, and those that did had to be propped open with sticks. It wasn’t perfect, but It was home.

 His mother had a garden out the front. Father said she didn’t need one, that she wouldn’t look after it properly. Not that he knew what she did. Every day Jun would come home from school and she’d be there, pruning leaves and pulling weeds. He’d join her, sometimes, and she’d teach him about different types of roses, where the thorns grew and how the petals bloomed. 

 When it rained, she’d grab onto his hands and they’d dance, spinning over and over in the kitchen until a fit of giggles would make them fall to the floor. The air was hot and sticky, the smell of damp concrete heavy in the air, but her garden was being watered, and therefore, they should be happy.

 One night, it rained so hard Jun couldn’t sleep. The wind howled, the house creaked, but none of it was as loud as the yells from downstairs. They themselves were a storm against sea cliffs, and it was all he could do to pull the blankets over his eyes, and cover his ears until it stopped.

 In the morning, he ran outside to find his mother, kneeling by the remnants of her storm strewn garden. It was odd to cry about a garden, he thought. Maybe she believed her tears would fix it.

Part of him expected her to be mending it when he got home that day, but the only thing waiting at the door was a post-it note that said _‘Goodbye’_. Mother pretended she wasn’t sad, but she kept crying to her garden. 

A place was set at the table for father every night, even when they both knew he was never coming home. That didn’t hurt so much. What hurt was the way she let the weeds grow. The way she forgot how to smile. How, when it rained, she’d stare out the window and watch it drip. Jun didn’t pray for rain like he once did, he dreaded it. He didn’t have anything left of his old life and sometimes, in those half-asleep moments at dawn and dusk, he thought perhaps he only imagined those happy moments.

 

Daehyun didn’t leave as suddenly as Jun’s father did. No one blew out the candle, it was left to flicker until all the wax had melted and there was nothing left to burn. Jun’s not sure which hurt more.

They used to sit on the balcony of his apartment, overlooking the midnight canvas of downtown Seoul. Daehyun would have his cigarette lit and sit atop the railing, playing with the lighter. Sparks were torn free by the wind, dancing across the night sky, a thousand fading stars to add to those behind them.

“That could all be ours,” Daehyun would whisper, leaning forward. “Our faces on billboards, buses, times square. Imagine it.”

Jun would imagine it, but before he could make it feel real _,_ there’d be the taste of smoke on his lips where there wasn’t before.

Jun should have known that it wouldn’t last. Because, when he heard those words, _that could all be ours,_ whether Dae meant the city or the sky didn’t matter. Jun simply thought _it already is._

It’s been seven months since Jun’s seen his face, and when it flashes onto their TV— a little more preened for the camera, but no less handsome—it’s all Jun can do not to throw his glass at the screen.

“Fucking asshole.” Minghao mutters, switching through the channels to find something new.

If Joshua or Soonyoung were here they would have made a big deal out of it, offering cups of tea and sagely advice. Minghao doesn’t do that. Minghao munches on popcorn and choses a nature documentary, settling his feet on Jun’s lap.

“He’s not an asshole.” Jun says quietly, finger pulling at a thread in the couch. “He did what anyone would have done.”

 

“He broke your heart. He’s a fucking asshole.”

 

“Love could be temporary. Your career is forever.”

 

“That’s bullshit.”

 

“I know. He just didn’t want to take that risk.”

 

“Then he’s a coward. Don’t fucking date artists Jun, find yourself a business man with a steady job and no reason to leave.”

 

“Or give them enough reason to stay.”

 

Minghao glares at him. “You’re reason enough.”

 

“Damn straight.”

 

But Daehyun wanted more. He reached for the sky and took the stars away. Who’s to say it won’t happen again?

 

No, the smell of rain and cigarette smoke has never been the same. It reminds him of the past. It reminds him he needs to leave, before anyone else can do it to him.

 

The next day, the audition room smells like both.

 More than that, it smells like damp cupboards and stale bread. Nerves mixed with the scent claw up his throat, closing it to the world and oxygen he dearly needs right at this moment. Tempted to run from the small room and never look back, Jun digs his nails into the wood of the armrest instead, holding him in place.

 The script on the table is dog-eared and stained with coffee rings. Three lines were quickly high-lighted before it was shoved in his direction. This is not the place of dreams some imagine audition rooms to be.

 A casting director with small eyes and thin cheeks gazes over the top of a camera. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, tone indicating he’d like that to be now. His assistant draws on her cigarette from where she sits by the window, not even glancing in Jun’s direction.

_Great._ Jun blows air from his cheeks and picks up the script.

From the first line, he knows he’s screwed.

_Why did you leave me? We were supposed to be in this together._

 

***

 

Jeonghan looks ready to celebrate. Celebrating what, though, Jun’s got no clue. It doesn’t really matter, either. He sits at one of the tables with his favourite cocktail in hand— (a mix of lemon juice, mango and vodka, dubbed the Golden Queen by Mingyu)—his fingernails painted silver. He’s got a bejewelled headdress around his hair, making the waves more prominent and helping to shape his delicate features.

 

Seokmin lounges next to him, stirring his dairy-made milkshake from down the street. The singer is kitted out in a red and yellow striped suit with a straw boater, looking like he stepped out of Mary Poppins’s.

 

It takes Jun a moment to adjust to the sight of them, before realising the whole place is decked out in themed décor. There’s glitzy tassels hanging over the doorways and from the roof of the bar. Seungcheol bats at them as he tries to get through to the kitchen, making the light shimmer. Red tablecloths are pinned beneath vases of feathers that act as centrepieces to the tables, and there appears to be bits of gold confetti strewn across the carpet and stage.

 

_Crap._ It’s theme night.

 

It isn’t the costumes or decorations that reminds Jun of this—Jeonghan’s fashion is really that unpredictable—but the way Jihoon frowns as he enters the room. “I said 1920’s not fucking 2020, Junhui. You were meant to be here an hour ago.”

 

Jihoon looks like a gangster. Not just any gangster, but the guy that runs drug circles and kills people without getting blood on his hands. He’s got the black fedora and everything. This makes him scarier than normal. Not that Jun would ever admit someone half his size could be scary.

 

“I know…” Jun shuffles his feet. Dammit brain. This has been on the staff calendar for weeks. “I just didn’t want to ruin the surprise...of my outfit. Which I definitely have with me. In this bag. Right here.”

 

Jihoon glares harder. His love for American culture truly shines in his choice of a theme—and protectiveness of said theme. More than that, shines his love for jazz. Quite literally. In all the glittery decorations. “You’re shit at lying,” he takes a bite out of an apple he’s holding before pointing it accusingly in Jun’s direction. “I thought actors were meant to be good at that.”

 

“Ah, but as an actor,” Jun holds up his finger and sends Jihoon his sweetest smile. “I’m good at improvising. Which I will do right now. Really well.”

 

“You better.”

 

“Leave him be, Hoonie, he’s been busy.”  Jeonghan says, waving a lazy finger in the air. He smiles at Jun.  “How was the audition?”

 

Ignoring Jihoon’s grumblings, Jun swerves over to the bar and dumps his bag. Jun exhales slowly on seeing the piano seat empty, a knot of nerves in his chest untangling themselves. _Why the hell are you nervous?_ The audition is over.

 

He forces a smile, even as the words scratch his throat on the way out. “Great. It was just…great.”

 

Mingyu’s behind the bar with a checklist, dressed up in a tight-fitting bartender vest, pocket watch sticking out from the left side of his chest. He’s trying to get Hansol—very Charlie Chaplin-ish with his false moustache—to unpack boxes and hang out cardboard cut-outs. The latter seems more interested in the packaging than the contents of the boxes, and nothing seems to be getting done.

 

“You really do suck at lying.” Chan says. He sits on the edge of the stage in suspenders and a chimney sweep hat, his feet dangling from the edge.

 

“No, I don’t! I mean, I’m not lying. If the casting director correcting my pronunciation and yawning six times is _good_ , then yeah. It was fantastic.” Jun scrapes the bar stool on the way out, and both Hansol and Mingyu stop what they’re doing to watch the chair move, sharing a glance.

 

“Need a drink?” Mingyu suggests.

 

Hansol grins. “Or bubble wrap?”

 

Jun snatches the wrap from his friend, fingers instantly finding comfort in destroying tiny pockets of air. _Dammit, it was a shit-show._

 

“That bad, huh?”

 

“This was my first audition in weeks and I blew it.”

 

“You don’t know that.” Jeonghan coos. There’s a very practiced nature to the tone of his voice, as though he’s had to do this a million times before. Jun doesn’t doubt that he has—just last week Jun watched him console Seungkwan about getting rejected from singing at the nursing home. “They might still call.”

 

“I know. I just… I could have done it better.” _So much better._ “My head wasn’t in it.” _Or heart._

 

“We can’t help thinking of what could have been.” Jihoon says through a mouthful of apple. He strides towards the kitchen. “It’s not a failure of character, it’s life—”

Everyone pauses to look at Jihoon. This is uncharacteristically nice of him, and he seems to realise that. Turning slowly, he fixes a glare back on Jun. “I’ll give you five minutes to mope but then I want you dressed like fucking Great Gatsby himself. Hansol, stop being a pain, and Jeonghan, can you actually do something? Chan, get off your phone and go find Seungkwan. We’ve got a show to put on.”

“Yessir.” Jun mocks a salute as Jihoon disappears to his _calm place._ The calm place being both Seungcheol’s kitchen and just Seungcheol himself.

 

Hansol showers Mingyu in Styrofoam beads and Chan stays on his phone, neither caring that their boss is carrying around a fake silencer.

 

Jun smiles. “I don’t suppose anyone knows where the nearest costume shop is?”

 

***

 

By the time Jun gets back from his whirlwind shopping trip with Seokmin, a rare sense of peace has descended upon the bar. It may have something to do with the man at his ivory keys, and the way he makes Jun want to dissolve into the floor.

 

Jihoon was right. This was a fucking fantastic idea.

 

Wonwoo has his jacket slung over his shoulder, loose tie framed by suspenders. That’s not what makes Jun weak at the knees, it’s the gloves, and the way his long fingers trace the keys. Jun’s world fizzes into one of arpeggios and elegant slurs, ribbons of notes rippling from the keys.

 

Jun doesn’t mean to make his way to the stage, but he does, and before he knows it he’s sitting himself down next to the pianist without any hesitation.

 

Wonwoo doesn’t stop playing, which Jun takes as invitation to stay.

 

“Can I keep you…accompaniment?” Jun asks.

 

Wonwoo stops, breaking the song to grab the pencil from behind his ear and scribble something down on his sheet music. “Was that a pun?”

 

“You bet your jass It was.”

 

 “I’m just going to pretend you’re mispronouncing words. Then I won’t get angry.”

 

“C’mon, you love it.”

 

Wonwoo stops scribbling and looks over his shoulder, wry smile shifting his expression. “Something got you in a good mood?”

 

 “Seokmin just told me he and Soonyoung are going to get bubble tea next week. I think he thinks it’s more of a friend thing, but ah well, at least they’re going. Now Soonyoung will stop moaning.”

 

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything, he just smiles.

 

Great, back to one-sided conversations.

 

“Plus, everyone here looks like they walked out of Downton Abbey...” _And you look hot in that outfit._ “So yeah. I’m pretty happy.”

 

“Downton Abbey?” Wonwoo stabs a piano key in protest. “Seungkwan’s dressed like a flapper. It isn’t exactly musty period costume.”

 

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” Jun punctuates his words by walking his fingers up the piano keys to meet Wonwoo’s. The fabric of his glove brushes Jun’s hand, sending an electric shiver down his arm.  “This will be the highlight of the historic societies week.”

 

Wonwoo pulls away, reaching for his pencil. “I’m glad Seokmin’s going out with your friend.” He murmurs, squinting at the paper before him. “Though you do realise if he so much as raises his voice at him, he’ll have half of this damn bar on his case.”

 

Jun rolls his eyes. “Soonyoung’s a cloud. They’re going to get bubble tea and win plushies from arcade machines, I don’t think you have to worry.”

 

“Sounds fun.”

 

Maybe we should do it sometime? _Stop it._ Don’t go down this road, not again. If only Jun's heart fucking listened to his head.

 

He hesitates. God, he wants to ask how the songs going. Wants to hear him play, wants to help, wants Wonwoo’s hands to guide his through the tune. Something— _fear? Common sense?_ —stops him.

 

“Does that mean you won’t be sticking around?”

 

The question catches Jun off guard. “What?”

 

“I don’t know. This was only temporary for you, right?”

 

“Well…” Jun shifts. “I suppose—”

 

“Soonyoung won’t need an excuse to visit anymore.” Wonwoo tucks his pencil back behind his ear. “I thought maybe you’d move onto better things.”

 

Jun’s not sure what annoys him more, the indifference in Wonwoo’s tone, or the fact he still doesn’t think this _is_ better things.

 

Jun took him to that mountain for a goddamn reason.

 

He pushes down on one of the keys sharply. “I had an audition today.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“It was shit. I felt shit. I’ve actually had a pretty shit week. Then I came here and felt remarkably better because everyone cared. I like all of you, a lot, this past month has been the happiest I’ve felt in a long time. People aren’t temporary to me, ok?”

 

Wonwoo stares, a little too hard and a little too long. Those eyes try to read him, try to crawl inside his mind, but how can Jun let them when all he gets in return is a stare as cold as a winter sky after sunset.

 

“Ok.” Is all Wonwoo says, fingers finding a chord.

 

“Ok?”

 

“I’m…glad.”

 

Warmth weaves through Jun’s chest.

 

“And I’m sorry you’ve had a shit week.” The words seem hard for him to say, and he fills the silence with a trill of notes on the piano. “But I’m kind of glad about that, too.”

 

Jun raises an eyebrow.

 

“It means you’re human. Life seems so easy for you sometimes.”

 

“Pah,” Jun can’t help but smile. “If only you knew.”

 

“Who’s the real Junhui then?”

 

“You don’t want to know.”

 

The gaze is back, only this time it’s closer, and Jun can smell bittersweet coffee on Wonwoo’s breath. “Maybe I do.”

 

The words ring around the room like a toil of a bell, joyous and triumphant, but they morph into the echoes of what haunts Jun the most. Somehow, three words have the power to draw images from the ground and play them before his eyes, distorted by light, on a loop that threatens to twist towards forever.

 

They talk more, they go out, they fall in love—because _god_ , does Jun have the potential to love this man—but then he gets a call. The call is inevitable, it’s fucking Jeon Wonwoo, and he’s got more talent in one gloved finger than half this city. The call asks him to play in an orchestra or write songs, so he goes. At first, it’s fine, they try to make it work, but then he’s gone on tour, he’s asked to write for movies, he’s signing autographs and having interviews and one-day Jun comes home to a note that simply says _goodbye._

 

Jun wants nothing more than to press his lips against the curve of Wonwoo’s jaw. He wants it so much it hurts, but Minghao’s words of warning are carved in his mind, _don’t date artists, Junhui._

 

“I don’t think you would. He can be a bit insane at times.” Jun leans away, trying to disguise it all with a laugh. That’s him, _life is easy_ Jun. He dusts his hands together and swings one leg off the piano seat. “Anyway, I better…I’ve got to help Hansol with the…y’know. I’ll leave you to your work…” Jun gestures at the paper.

 

The worst part is not the way Wonwoo simply turns away, void of expression. It’s not the way Seokmin bounces up to Jun with an indescribable freedom, or how Mingyu watches him curiously as he descends the stairs.

 

The worst part is the sound of crumpled paper falling to the floor, followed by a silence, where the presence of music is notably absent.  

 

***

 

There is a point, every night, when things start to get a little crazy. Whether it’s Hansol accidentally eating someone’s food, Mingyu knocking over a candle and setting fire to the cloth, or Jeonghan attempting to take one of Seungkwan’s songs, something is bound to happen when the clock strikes midnight.

Alright, not exactly midnight, but it happens.

 

Tonight seems to have gone without hitch. Everyone has truly accepted the spirit of jazz, with Seungkwan causing a riot by teaching the ladies from the historic society the Charleston and Turkey Trot. Jun even spotted Jihoon being surprisingly good at it. It has been a night of laughter and light but it’s passed over Jun’s head in a blur of quick footed service. He’s been too busy to think, and that is, for once, a good thing.

 

It is thirteen minutes past midnight, and Jun is delivering a lava cake to someone’s table, when he hears a commotion.

 

The muffled hisses are hidden beneath the strident notes of Jeonghan’s solo piece. Jun might have missed it if it wasn’t for the way Mingyu rushes past him to get back to the bar.

 

Jun’s not sure who throws the first punch, Wonwoo, or the guy he was pinning to the wall. All he knows is that both of them tumble, a glass smashes, and Jeonghan’s playing stops momentarily.

 

For all the staff, the silence sings two words loud and clear. _Not again._

 

Jun locks eyes with the saxophonist who restarts his song as though nothing’s happened. The door to the kitchen swings, tassels scattering, as Hansol rushes for Seungcheol, but by the time Jun’s dumped his tray and moved over, Mingyu’s managed to separate the two brawling men.

 

Mingyu holds out a hand to the stranger’s chest. He’s young, dressed sharply in what looks like a business suit. “Stop it— “Mingyu pleads. “Let’s talk outside, this is ridiculous.”

 

The man snarls and shoves Mingyu away. “You tell your friend to mind his fucking business, then we can talk—”

 

“This _is_ my business,” Wonwoo hisses. Jun catches him around the waist as he goes to lunge forward. Heat radiates from his torso. Still clutching, Jun shifts himself in between the two men.

 

“You don’t come near him, you understand?” Wonwoo resists against Jun’s hold, muscles tightening. He’s got blood leaking from the side of his mouth and a scratch on his forehead. "

 

The smell of alcohol is strong on the other man’s breath. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

 

“Someone who actually cares!”

 

The man curls his fist. “That’s a right joke—”

 

 “I’m going to need both of you to calm down,” Jun says, glancing at Mingyu for any sort of clarity on what is going on. Mingyu just looks wide-eyed and lost.

 

“Who the fuck are you?”

 

“Jun, get out of the way—”

 

Wonwoo’s warning has apt timing as the man goes to throw another sloppy punch at Wonwoo. Jun dodges it. Letting go of Wonwoo, he grabs the man’s wrist and twists his arm behind his back. “I said you need to calm down.”

 

He holds for a moment before releasing his grip. The man stumbles backwards, baring his teeth in Jun’s direction. Jun snatches at Wonwoo, holding him in place.

 

“ _Please_.” Mingyu grabs the man’s arm and tugs him towards the door, expression one of pity rather than anger. The man wipes blood from beneath his nose before spitting at the ground.

 

Wonwoo watches him walk away. Jun can feel him strain his muscles to stop from going after them. Jun reaches his sleeve to dab at the blood. “Are you—?”

 

“Fine.” Wonwoo tears away from Jun’s grip, not meeting his eyes.

 

“What the hell was that?”

 

“Exactly what I want to know.” Jihoon snaps, hand grabbing onto Wonwoo’s forearm. Their boss has the uncanny ability to step unheard from the shadows and take instant control of a situation. “Check on Mingyu, Cheol. Jun, Hansol, cover the floor. If you’ve ruined my jazz night, you moody bastard, I swear I’ll have you playing Christmas Carols for two weeks.”

 

With that, Wonwoo’s gone, without a glance back. Jun is left with no idea who the man was or how it started, knowing only that this could have been partly his fault.

 

***

 

 

Downtown is half state housing and half industrial yards and for the first time in Jun’s life the phrase ‘wrong side of the train tracks’ actually makes sense.

 

To make it worse, there’s a string of storms tearing across the valley, short violent bursts of thunder and rain that last long enough to terrify. Jun hates storms, and all he wants to do is drink tea and listen to Joshua’s guitar.

 

But Wonwoo hasn’t shown up to work for three days and nobody seems to want to fill in the blanks of what happened. So Instead of hiding at home, Jun’s sheltering in a bus stop trying to clear his phone screen so he can find Wonwoo’s house.

 

A rumble of thunder shakes the ground as Jun zips up his rain jacket. Jeonghan was kind enough to give him the address, but not kind enough to drive.

 

“Trust me, he just does this sometimes. Hoonie calls it his ‘creative leave’ days.”

 

“Like...mental health days?”

 

“Sure, you could say that. Wonwoo just likes to retreat into books, and sometimes it takes him a while to come out again. Trust me, he’s fine.”

 

Jun does trust Jeonghan, and he does think he’s fine, and everything tells him not to interfere.

But Jun’s never been very good at listening to his head, so, he’s on his way to interfere. He figures if he goes home and worries about Wonwoo, goes to work and worries about Wonwoo, then the only solution is to actually _see_ Wonwoo, and he’ll figure the rest out from there. It was a good plan in theory, but now he’s soaking and getting barked at by strange dogs.

Mingyu told Jun the man at the bar was an ex-boyfriend. Not one of Wonwoo's however, one of Mingyu's, and that much Jun had already gathered. The bartender otherwise skirted around the topic, at least around Jun. Jeonghan had filled in a little of Mingyu's dating history, which would make any friend wary, but Jun's not sure it warrants starting a bar fight over. 

By the time Jun finally finds it, his nerves are frayed in all directions. Wonwoo’s apartment block isn’t so different from Jun’s, both are ugly and square, only this one doesn’t have a working intercom, and the door that leads into the block is hanging from one hinge.

Jun wants to cry when he finds out the elevators work. They smell like weed and vomit, but they _work,_ and Jun sinks against the wall as it carries him to the seventh floor. By the time he gets there, a puddle has formed at his feet from his clothes, but he’s too tired to care.

There’s a baby screaming and a couple yelling—the usual apartment ambiance—but not much else can be heard above the sound of rain on roof tiles. He makes his way to the eleventh room, finding a steady drip collecting into a bucket outside the door.

Without breathing or thinking, Jun knocks. Twice. Three times for luck. When no one answers, he starts banging to the tune Wonwoo was playing the other day.

There’s the sounds of locks clicking, making Jun’s heart hammer like the pounding rain. It slows down completely when Mingyu answers the door, wearing one of his tight-fitting tops and an apron.

Jun blinks, heat creeping through his chest. _He does have other friends, you fool._

 

_Friends?_

 

Shit, it would make a whole lot more sense if they were more than friends. But surely someone would have said something. Jeonghan definitely would have. Right? Maybe not. Maybe that’s why he’s so protective.

 

Jun hates that it bugs him so much.

 

“Jun!” Mingyu says, face creasing into a smile. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Well…I…”

 

“Thank sweet baby Chan!” A voice from inside—distinctly loud and distinctly Seokmin—cries. The flood of relief that surges through Jun is ridiculous. He sticks an arm out to steady himself on the wall. “Wonwoo’s about to lose at monopoly and I think he’s going to flip the table. We might need your Wing Chun skills."

“I can’t be poor in real life _and_ in a board game.” A familiar, heart-stopping, nerve inducing grumble reaches Jun as Wonwoo shuffles into view. He’s got his round spectacles on and a pair of patterned pyjamas. There’s something very endearing about the way his hair sticks up. 

 

Mingyu sighs. “I should have been born a CEO. I'm dominating this game.”

 

“You can’t be born a CEO you dimwit.” Wonwoo peers at Jun. No greeting. No smile. “Why are you so wet?”

 

Jun opens and closes his mouth. “Well it’s actually raining… Outside. And inside, apparently.” He glances at the leak. “Nice water feature.”

 

“Thanks. I had it installed yesterday.” 

 

Mingyu snorts and steps to the side. “Come in, quickly, I’ll get you a towel. I’m making lunch, do you want some? Wonwoo didn’t say you were coming over.”

 

“Oh no…I’m not…I didn’t…” Jun clears his throat, clothes feeling far heavier than they did before. “I don’t want to interrupt, I just wanted to make sure he was…you were…”

 

“Alive?”

 

“Yeah. Something like that.”

 

They stare long enough for Mingyu to shuffle awkwardly back to the kitchen.

 

“Well It’s good to see that you are.” Jun breaks the silence. _Of all the stupid ideas..._ He takes a step back, almost knocking into the bucket. “I’ll be going…now.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Wonwoo says, grabbing his wrist. "I was going to text you."

 

"But...?"

 

"I don't even have your number."

 

"Oh. That can be changed."

 

"Good."

 

"So, are you-"

 

"No. No questions." Wonwoo holds a finger up to Jun's lips. "This is a very crucial moment in board-game history."

 

"Oh my god. You are such a dork."

 

"I need help mortgaging my houses. You can be the banker seeing as Seokmin sucks at math.”

 

Seokmin laughs. “Alright Mr. _I’ll take 400 from Go and see if he notices_.”

 

“It was actually 600.”

 

“And you're still losing.”

 

Jun hates the smell of cigarettes and rain. It reminds him of midnight arguments, of torn gardens, of falling stars and broken dreams. Right now, as Wonwoo drags him into the room, the smell of coffee and a hint of apple pie fills his lungs.  Rain may remind him of the past, but this, it reminds him that he’ll never learn from it. Maybe he doesn't want to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update, I've been away! But I have a head-start on the next chapter so hopefully it will be quicker this time...I didn't realize this would be such a slow burn, thanks for being patient with my rambling. And thanks again for your awesome support, it means so much! Enjoy x


	5. Of Space and Love

 This is Wonwoo’s room. He doesn’t spend a lot of time in it, but it’s his.

 

These walls are shaded blue. Not a bright day blue, or an aqua blue, but an evening blue, produced just as the sun dips out of this world and onto the next. There’s a faded bookcase in the corner that’s seven levels high—ordered alphabetically of course, from Aristotle to Zwicky.

 

A collection of roughened ‘space rocks’ lined up like bits of coal at the back of his work desk, and there’s a telescope next to it that his grandmother got when he was seven. A frosted glass chess set lives on its own table by the door, though it hasn’t had any use recently. Nothing’s out of order. Notes are stacked, clothes are neat—but that’s only because the real mess is in the music room.

 

There are photos here too. Wonwoo thinks sometimes people forget that he cares. Maybe sometimes _he_ forgets that. But the picture he took with Mingyu during their holiday in Anguilla—Wonwoo in dark glasses with a visible frown, Gyu in a green shirt and a grin as bright as the flowers behind him—still sits on his bedside table.

 

There’s a photo with Seokmin on his twentieth birthday hiding among the space rocks, Hansol and Chan’s graduation picture is shelved with the books, Seungkwan dressed as cinderella takes prime spot on the window, and Jeonghan and Cheol on pirate night are somewhere near the telescope. It’s not the family he was born into, but it’s the family he chose. Or rather, the one that chose him.

 

_People aren’t temporary to me, ok?_

 

Jun’s words are nailed to the walls of his mind. They have been since the other night, because Wonwoo understands what Jun meant. He wanted to say _they aren’t temporary to me either_ , but how could he when all he’s been dreaming of is getting out of that place?

 

People flow in and out of Mingyu’s life every day, and Wonwoo hates them for that. Does the fact he might leave one day make him a hypocrite? Does having a dream make him selfish? Does it mean compromising on everything else? On the people he supposedly cares about?

 

Fuck Junhui. His words, and his face, and the way he makes Wonwoo _feel._

 

His words aren’t nailed to the wall, they _are_ the nails, thrusting into his temples with force enough to blind him. Wonwoo can’t read Jun, not like the others. He never can, but somehow the actor can reach inside his chest and play his insecurities like the strings of a lyre.

 

There’s a knock at the door, and Wonwoo realizes he can’t avoid him forever. Not when said lyre player is in his house. “Jun?”

 

The door cracks, spilling light from the hallway into his darkening room. Jun opens the door fully with his elbow, balancing a bowl in one hand, a glass in the other. “How’d you know it was me?”

 

Wonwoo could tell him that he’s learnt their knocks. That he knows Seungkwan’s is fast paced, between seven and ten beats, seemingly frantic enough to cause worry. That smiling face will soon peer around the corner to appease all fears. Cheol’s is one beat, short and sharp, followed by an equally sharp name call. Hansol’s is non-existent. Not because he doesn’t visit, but because the kid doesn’t knock.

 

Mingyu’s is always slow as to not startle anyone; and it’s never an even number. Jun’s is, apparently erratic, strictly staccato. But Wonwoo doesn’t tell him that. Instead he dips his head toward the door.  “I saw your feet.”

 

“Right,” Jun’s eyes glint, face overcast as shadows are born from the dying light. Then he smiles and, for a moment, the storm stops it’s hammer of rain on the window. He puts the bowl down on Wonwoo’s dresser, studying the room with interest. “You don’t have to hide in here just because Seokmin destroyed your business empire.”

 

“I’m not hiding,” Wonwoo glares. “I was getting clothes.”

 

Jun looks him up and down. “Putting one sock on your foot doesn’t count as getting dressed. You need at least two.”

 

“Not for me, you fool.” Wonwoo tosses the shirt he’s holding in Jun’s direction. “If you’re going to get hypothermia and die, do it at your own apartment.”

 

“I’ve been dripping on your couch for an hour and _now_ you think it’s a good time to give me this?”

 

“The game was more important than your health.”

 

“Well, now your couch can grow a mould family and we’ll both die…Is this a Star Wars shirt?”

 

“Your tone is telling me you _don’t_ own a Star Wars shirt. Disgusting.”

 

“Your true self is being revealed.”

 

“What? A Jedi?”

 

“No, a dork. Isn’t there another one?”

 

“Since you said that? No. It’s Star Wars or the plague.”

 

Jun chuckles and starts doing the thing that normally annoys Wonwoo—going around and touching all his stuff. Jun manages to do it with such a childish light of intrigue that Wonwoo can’t help but stare. “Are these your pets?” he asks, picking up one of the rocks from the mantelpiece.

 

“Yes.” Wonwoo lowers himself onto his bed. “Put John down, you’re hurting him.”

 

“You know, I was starting to think you lived and breathed piano. I’m glad to find out you have other interests, like John, the lovely garden rock.”

  
“They’re space rocks, you jerk.”

 

Jun raises his eyebrows, holding one up to the light.

 

“Well, my dad said they were space rocks.” Wonwoo shrugs. “You know, when I was younger.”

 

“So, you kept them?”

 

“Yeah. Stupid, I know.”

 

“No, it’s pretty cute.” Jun laughs. _God_ , that laugh. His hair is all fluffy from the rain, his cheeks are rosy from the heat of the kitchen, and Wonwoo finds himself wondering what the hell he’s doing here. It isn’t polite to walk through a storm and appear like Adonis himself when Wonwoo’s wearing sweat pants and a top with tea stains.

 

“I don’t _only_ like music, you know.” Wonwoo says, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “I am not entirely one dimensional.”

 

“Sometimes it seems like it…” The comment is made somewhat flippant as Jun spies the picture of Wonwoo and Mingyu in Anguilla. He grabs it, smile broadening. “Jeon Wonwoo, you sultry devil. Is that a tan?”

 

“Don’t,” Wonwoo snatches it off him and puts it back where it belongs. _So, Jun thinks he’s one dimensional and doesn’t care about people?_ Great. He frowns, finally releasing the question that’s been fighting. “Why are you here?”

 

“To play monopoly, obviously.” Jun says. Unaffected by Wonwoo’s glare, he sits himself down on the edge of the bed. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Mingyu live together?”

 

“We don’t.” While Wonwoo crosses his arms over his chest, Jun leans with his behind him, body open to the air. That, right there, is their fundamental difference. “He just stays over when he’s having a rough time. Why?”

 

“The guy you hit was his ex-boyfriend, right?”

 

“Yeah?” Wonwoo runs a hand through his already tangled hair, an incredulous huff caught in throat. “So, what?”

 

“You seemed pretty riled up. More than usual.”

 

 _More than usual?_ Does Wonwoo make it his habit to fight customers? Is he now the one dimensional, heartless pianist with anger issues? What an image. “He deserved it. Jun, what’s your point?”

 

Jun blinks at him, eyes narrow. Wonwoo once thought this look—this, I _know something you don’t_ , look, was reason to be wary of Junhui. Now he knows it to be some form of façade, a defensive wall of bronze built to keep confidence outside and insecurities in.

 

“How long have you loved him?”

 

Wonwoo chokes on air. Not a one-off splutter, but a full on _cough out your lungs_ kind of choking, which results in a few seconds of awkward patting on Jun’s part. Wonwoo’s hands briefly coil but he lets it go. Let’s the flicker dissolve as fingers relax, any frustration rolling away with the fact that it’s very _Jun_ to not understand boundaries. “Who…Mingyu?”

 

Jun frowns, lips morphing into a frankly adorable pout. “No, your pet rock John. Yes _Mingyu._ ”

 

“Seokmin’s here too, are you going to ask if I love him as well?”

 

“Everyone loves Seokmin.” Jun throws his hands out like it’s obvious. A flash of irritation comes and fades like a wreath of evening mist, before his face settles back, blank, void of both laughter and seriousness. “It’s a different sort of love.”

 

“Not for me. They’re family.”

 

 “So, that man the other night…?”

 

“I protect my family.”

 

Wonwoo loves silence, it’s the space between noise that can be so perfectly hand crafted it becomes like music itself. Wonwoo’s not sure he likes it now, not as Jun’s the one controlling it, simply staring at Wonwoo without a word on the horizon.

 

“They dated, a couple months back.” Wonwoo finally breaks. “The dick made all these promises about modelling contracts. About helping Gyu with his clothing line. Sure enough, an opportunity came by, but it was for one cat, not two, so he up and left. No doubt with some of Mingyu’s designs too. You have no idea what it’s like to watch your friend get their hopes up so _badly—_ ” Wonwoo’s nails dig into the skin of his palm.

 

“I think I have a good idea, actually.” Jun’s hollow voice, usually a gentle breeze that chases dark clouds away, threatens to draw them in instead. But he leans back with a huff of breath, head tilting toward the ceiling. “That fucking sucks.”

 

“What makes it worse is that he tried to walk right back into his life like nothing happened. Gyu would let him, too, because he sees the good in people. That’s why he’s staying here.”

 

“So, you can corrupt his wholesome view of the world?”

 

“No. So he doesn’t text the bastard back.”

 

Jun hums, feet running back and forth across the carpet. He doesn’t look at Wonwoo, and that, says more than if he had. “Is that why you took these days off?”

 

“Sort of.”

 

Sort of? There’s a million reasons why he took these days off, the first being Jihoon told him to, the most important being he didn’t want to see Jun. Wonwoo made a resolve to ignore nagging ache in his chest, to avoid any form of Junhui sized distraction, and write his damn song.  

 

The problem being, whenever Wonwoo sits down at the piano, all he sees is Jun’s face, all he hears is his _laugh,_ and there’s nothing that makes him want to slam the piano lid down on his fingers quite like his consciousness not letting him concentrate.

 

“Just tell him you like him.” Mingyu had said, when the silence was too much for Wonwoo to handle, and he’d emerged from his cave of crumpled sheet music. Wonwoo hadn’t had to tell his friend how he felt, Mingyu had just _known_ , in the way that Mingyu sometimes knows things. He’s very understanding of feelings but not so about minds, and Wonwoo wonders if that’s a better way to live. "Seriously, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

 

Mingyu's solution is the romantic one, the idealistic _just put everything aside and love a person_ approach to life. Wonwoo has voices in his head that value reason over impulse, and it wasn’t the first time he wished he could be a little bit more like his friends, a little bit less like himself. “It’s more complicated than that. We’ve both got...paths.”  

 

“Oh.” Mingyu said, lips curving downward.

 

“So, I’ve just got to get over it.”

 

That was Wonwoo’s resolve, but then three days in, Junhui shows up at the door, soaking wet, asking questions about love.

 

“Why are you here?” he asks again, though this time its softer, less of an accusation.

 

Jun fiddles with a bracelet that’s tied to his wrist. “Because I hate storms.”

 

“What?”

 

“I hate storms, and I thought you were alone, and I hate the idea of you being alone more than I hate storms.” Jun looks up, and this time, there aren’t any walls. There’s eyes as nervous as his words. “But you’re not alone…you’ve got people with you. Good people, that you love. That love you. So, I guess…the real question isn’t why I came, but why I stayed.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I hate storms.” Jun whispers, and Wonwoo feels a hand on his, feels his fingers being uncurled. Jun moves closer, breath warm as he speaks. “And maybe _I_ didn’t want to be alone.”

 

Nothing is simple about this situation, nothing is simple about Jun, so it is strange, that Wonwoo suddenly feels no decision has ever been simpler.

 

He leans in, slowly at first, like the spell of the moon on a hesitant tide. His hand finds the back of Jun’s neck, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, lips hovering, only _hovering._

 

Jun grabs his collar and, without hesitation, brings their lips together. If the sound of a melody could taste like something, then it would be _this,_ the feeling of his hands playing harmony. In that moment, there’s no storm. There’s no song, there’s no job, there’s just _music_ , and the freedom that made him fall in love with it in the first place. Wonwoo knows then that even if this is only temporary, even if this moment is as fleeting as clouds that past the sun, it would be worth it all the same.  

 

 

***

“Jeon fucking Wonwoo?” Soonyoung swings around on the bar stool like a super villain, arms crossed, eyebrows knotted. “Who do you think you are, going around catching feelings for someone and not _telling me?_ ”

 

“Well I— “

 

“You kissed him out of nowhere and I haven’t even touched the finger of my dearly beloved! Seriously bro, not cool. You’ve listened to me wallow for months and you didn’t think to say anything?”

 

“I was goin—”

 

“Also, Wonwoo? There are so many other nice people in that bar you could have fallen for. Like Jihoon. Ok, maybe not Jihoon. Like Seungcheol! Or fucking…Hansol, I don’t know, Wonwoo’s a Mr Rochester if ever I saw one. And you’re too pretty to be Jane Eyre.”

 

“Soonyoung, breathing is a thing you need to do.” Minghao murmurs from the couch as he flicks through a magazine. “He’s probably kissed everyone in that place anyway.”

 

“Including Seokmin.” Jun affirms, placing both hands on Soonyoung’s shoulders. Soonyoung bats him away, rotating in the chair to face the fridge.

 

There is, of course, an element of risk involved in bursting breathless through the door, having climbed nine flights of stairs—the elevators still being broken, of course—and announcing to your flatmates that making out with Jeon Wonwoo is a great way to get over a storm phobia. But it’s the truth, and Jun needs someone to hear it before he bursts. There is only so much time one can sit in silence through—yet another—round of monopoly, facing off with the man he’d much rather be pushing against a wall.

 

Joshua, being his tranquil self, simply offers Jun a glass of water. Jun take it gladly and downs it, wanting to dampen the electricity coursing through his veins. There’s no thunderous glare or disapproving scowl on Josh’s part, only a knowing smile and a curious glint in his eye. “Jeonghan was right. He said he has a sixth sense about these things.”

 

Jun splutters on the water. Since when did Josh _talk_ to Jeonghan? “Jeonghan? Don’t tell me he knows, he is, without a doubt, the worst person to _know_ something. Not that there’s anything to… _know_ exactly, we just kissed.”

 

“He said, and I quote,” Joshua holds up one finger as he goes to pull out his phone. “’Their sexual tension makes me want to lock them in Cheol’s freezer’. I, being the benevolent protector of virtue, said there was nothing between you.”

 

“Benevolent protector of virtue my ass, how about you read out the rest of those texts?” Soonyoung calls, flying off the seat to lunge for Josh’s phone. “I doubt Yoon Jeonghan is concerned with anyone’s innocence.”

 

Josh turns off his phone and dances gracefully away from Soonyoung. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“You’re playing the pure act with him, aren’t you? I bet he loves that.”

 

A gracious smile attempts to hide the mischievous glow in Josh’s eyes. “I’m not the only one. Seriously though, I'm proud of you for not rushing things with Seokmin.”

 

“Fuck you, Jisoo.”

 

“Language.”

 

“Just because everyone else is fucking the staff, doesn’t mean you need to be surly.” Minghao says, turning another page.

 

Jun laughs. He laughs at Josh’s expression, at Soonyoung’s, at life, at these friends that colour his world with light. He laughs because he kissed _Jeon Wonwoo_ and nothing has ever felt better than his hands on Jun’s skin, no scent sweeter than the hints of sandalwood in his aftershave. Jun laughs until Minghao joins in, until Josh adds his delicate chuckle, until Soonyoung’s guffaw finishes the cacophony of joy.

 

“So, what now? Are you guys a thing thing?” Soonyoung asks, throwing his arms around the back of Jun’s shoulders. “Or just a _thing_? Do you want it to be a thing?”

 

Jun frowns. “Uhh...”

 

“Maybe you could double date for bubble tea.” Minghao suggests, corner of his lips twitching.

 

“Maybe you could go back to not knowing _Korean._ ” Soonyoung takes his hands-off Jun and throws him a death glare.

 

“You know what, that’s a wonderful Idea.” Josh agrees, eyes sparkling. “That way, nothing can get too out of hand. They can be like chaperones.”

 

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

 

Jun grins. “Well, I mean, Wonwoo definitely seems like the bubble tea kind of guy.”

 

Soonyoung raises a finger and points it in his direction. “This was supposed to be _my_ love story! Meet singer in a bar, get enchanted by his voice and looks, pine over him for months—I’ve been waiting my whole life for this bubble tea moment of glory, and if you and Mr Darcy ruin it I will dance you all the way back to China. Have your own fucking date.”

 

 

***

 

It is, interesting, how one person can change a life.

 

How, when already surrounded by so many vibrant friends, the world can get even more chaotic than it was before by the presence of just one other. Then again, Jun doesn’t come alone, it’s more of a package deal with three free bonus gifts. The cast has been called, the curtain drawn, and for the first time in what feels like an age, Wonwoo’s life has been thrust into action.

 

It started with a kiss and a promise.

 

“We have to make a pact.” Jun says as he flops on Wonwoo’s bed, kicking off his shoes into the air. Wonwoo never really has to invite him, he's just _there_ , on the same bus back from work. Not that Wonwoo minds. “You need to finish your song, I need to go to auditions.”

 

Wonwoo pushes his glasses up his nose. “Yes…and?”

 

“Help me read my lines. I think it’ll motivate me.”

 

“Oh, so this is like, a friends with benefits situation. Only the benefit is self-improvement. How disappointing.”

 

“I’ll make you work on your piece.”

 

“You’ll _make_ me?”

 

“Yes. Promise me you’ll work on it.”

 

“Why?” Wonwoo is slightly concerned by the seriousness of Jun’s tone, the way he reaches for Wonwoo’s hand, drawing him close. “Why’s that so important to you?”

 

His hand hold gets tighter. “Stop questioning everything and just do it.”

 

“Alright, alright. I promise.”

 

By the whirlwind that is Junhui, Wonwoo’s reading lines from movie scripts after work, he’s being dragged to the theatre on the weekends, he’s finding life in a medium he knew _nothing_ about.  Jun brings scripts to work and they practice—with Seungkwan, of course, who will not be left out of any theatricality. Wonwoo finds notes in the words, finds rhythm in the way they are spoken.

 

Spontaneity has never been one of Wonwoo’s strong suits. He’s the _need to know four days in advance,_ kind of guy. But now, oh, there’s a musical on in Busan? Let’s take the train with Soonyoung and Shua. Let’s get Seungcheol to drive half the bar staff to the ocean and back for an hour of outdoor Shakespeare.

 

“I’ve only got four spare seats in the car. I’m not even sure she’ll make it that far.” Seungcheol says with a cough as he tries to manoeuvre plates around a pleading Jun. Wonwoo tugs on Jun’s shirt to get him out of the way. Jun nudges him off and grabs the dishes from Seungcheol, taking it upon himself to start washing the dishes. 

 

“Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ve already asked a few people…and Jihoon’s been stressed, he loves Shakespeare!” Jun bounces on his feet as he pours far too much dish-washing liquid into the sink. “We can surprise him.”

 

“He hates Shakespeare.” Wonwoo amends, earning a look of utter betrayal. “He also hates surprises. We could just take Seungkwan and Seokmin.”

 

“That’s fine,” Seungcheol agrees, meeting Wonwoo’s gaze with what can only be described as an _out of breath_ look, which Jun manages to bring out in a lot of people.

 

“No." Jun is firm. "Soonyoung wants to go, and Jeonghan.”

 

  
“Well, you’re going to have to cull someone.”

 

“Shua too, I think.” Jun blinks innocently, and Wonwoo smirks as Seungcheol stops moving, now apparently interested. “But we don’t have to do it. I’ll just tell everyone to cancel—”

 

“Damn it.” Seungcheol pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs a deep, worldly-wise sigh, as though this is the hardest decision of his life. “I’ll just hire a fucking van.”

 

There’s sonatas in the chatter that fills the air, symphonies in train breaks and car horns. Wonwoo hears music where there wasn’t before—and where there _is_ music _,_ he hears each rising crescendo with so much more _clarity._ Because it isn’t only plays that Jun finds, it’s the orchestra concerts, the free blues nights, the lunchtime choirs at the library. Wonwoo collects all the sounds, and when they go back to his apartment ready to collapse out of exhaustion, Jun will say _write it all down._ So, he does, and then he starts to play, and sometimes he won’t stop until the sun’s rays lay a blanket over Jun, asleep on the music room couch.

 

The light plays with Jun’s hair, and a note sounds. His eyelids flutter, and a note sounds. He yawns and wakes and smiles, and notes fill Wonwoo’s head like morning birdsong. It’s in those moments that Wonwoo realises, with some horror, Jun is music.

 

“Fuck, this Is bad.”

 

“Explain to me why it’s bad, exactly?” Jeonghan stirs his drink as they sit at the bar—not _Seventeen_ , for once, which makes for a refreshing change. It’s somewhere far darker where nobody knows their names. Jeonghan is not the one to have this conversation with, but the rate he’s drinking makes Wonwoo think he might forget it all by morning anyway. “You like the guy, he likes you, what’s the big deal?”

 

“Because…” And for some reason, Wonwoo can’t get it into words. It’s the same way that on lazy Sunday mornings when Jun traces a finger over Wonwoo’s furrowed brow and asks _what is it?_ Wonwoo can’t say. Because he doesn’t know what _it_ is, just a niggling feeling that something is out of place. “Maybe he deserves more.” Wonwoo mutters.

 

“That’s crap and you know it. He would have left you if he thought he deserved more, he has a mind and legs of his own. Obviously, he sees _something_ in you.” Jeonghan makes it sounds like he’s not sure what that _something_ is, which is fair. “Don’t overthink it. That’s always your downfall.”

 

“How do you know what my downfall is?”

 

“I know people. I know you.”

 

Wonwoo hates to admit that it’s true, he likes to think Jeonghan’s just a whole lot of snark wound up in a pretty face. But the guy spent all of yesterday consoling Chan over a girl, knowing exactly what to say and when to say it. So maybe Jeonghan is the right person to have this conversation with after all. All Mingyu ever says is _love just feels right, you know?_ Except Wonwoo doesn’t know, because he’s not sure he’s ever experienced love, and he’s not sure _this_ feels right, and how would Mingyu know anyway? It can’t feel right with every man he’s ever been with.

 

Oh god. Wonwoo _is_ overthinking this.

 

“Maybe it’s just hard fitting him into your life. You’re a creature of habit, after all.” Jeonghan says, sipping his drink and eyeing a rather handsome man that walks past. “A lone wolf.”

 

Maybe that’s it, but maybe it’s more a case of fitting his life around Jun. Wonwoo can’t pin it down, that irksome moment of hesitance he always gets before seeing him, like they’re having a secret affair. That moment of nervousness as Jun asks _so, what are we?_ And Wonwoo brushes him off, _what difference do labels make anyway?_ There is something, an invisible block in his path, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. So, Wonwoo does the entirely insensible thing, and tries to ignore it, letting it wash away like letters in sand.

 

“Do you compose music because you want to be remembered, or because you love composing music?” Jun asks one day, finger tapping lazily at a high G sharp key. Wonwoo’s foot moves instinctively to the sound and he scribbles down the note into his current bar.

 

“Is _because I’m not very good at anything else_ an option?”

 

“Shut the fuck up, you’re smart as hell, you could have been an astro scientist or whatever.”

 

“Astrophysicist.”

 

“Yeah, that.”

 

“I don’t know if it’s love,” Wonwoo lifts a shoulder. “It’s more like, If I don’t get the music out of my head I’ll explode. Love shouldn’t do that to you. It’s more like a necessity, I guess. Why?”

 

“When I first saw you play…” Jun smiles somewhat wistfully, fingers falling into a chord. “I’ve never seen someone look so passionate about something. That’s why I asked you to promise me to keep writing it, you know. I don’t want you to lose that. I don’t want to…hold you back.”

 

“It’s nice you think so highly of yourself.” Wonwoo says, and Jun smiles, laughs it all off. Wonwoo knows the answer to Jun's question used to be, _I write music because I want to escape._ But he wonders at what specific point he stopped wanting to leave, and when he started appreciating his immediate world. The words  _hold you back_ stick around longer than invited, because really, Jun's doing the exact opposite.

 

But everything that starts must have an end. What started with a kiss and a promise, ends with a call and a whole lot of stars.

 

The observatory is Seokmin’s idea, not because Seokmin loves space, but because he loves gift shops and glow in the dark stickers. Soonyoung tags along, of course, and it’s nice to watch them stroll hand in hand beneath a display of the solar system. It is a relationship built not on chatter of the mind, but mindless chatter, and the two have an unmatchable ability to make conversation out of nothing.

  
“…so that’s when I realised, my true weakness is those people that stand inside shopping malls. Y’know, with those iPads? They wait for you to walk past, just minding your own business, heading towards Starbucks. Then they pounce _,_ all _hi there Sir, have you got a moment to spare today?_   And they shove pictures of endangered whales or starving kids in your face and before you know it you’re signing up to a yearly donation and getting postcards from the sea creature you adopted.” Soonyoung takes a deep breath, as though letting a weight off his chest. 

 

“I feel you on that one,” Seokmin says. “I always pretend I’m not old enough to donate, but then they quiz me on my birthday and I panic and accidentally make myself 45. Oh, hey look, the carpet’s got constellations on it!”

 

Soonyoung stops short, making Wonwoo pull up to avoid crashing into him. “Oh wow!”

 

As Wonwoo dodges around them, he shoots Jun a desperate look. Jun laughs, a starburst of light. “Don’t tell me this wasn’t a great idea.”

 

“It was a terrible idea, I came here to learn about Bok Globule’s and Cataclysmic Variable’s—”

 

“I love it when you speak jargon.”

 

“—but we’ve just spent an hour in the kid’s activity section drawing pictures of rocket ships.”

 

Jun rolls his eyes and grabs Wonwoo’s hands, fingers slipping between his as easily as Wonwoo’s fit to the keys of the piano. “You’re just mad because that kid judged your rocket the worst out of all of us.”

 

“I was being realistic. Seokmin drew a fucking space rabbit in his.”

  
“That’s why he won. Kids like rabbits.”

 

“Yeah that’s why you got the…constellation prize.” Seokmin calls.

 

Soonyoung sniggers. “Maybe he needed a little bit longer to _planet._ ”

 

Wonwoo closes his eyes and sighs. This was a terrible idea, he hates everyone, he also should _not_ join in. It only encourages them. “Do you two need some space?” he asks, deadpan.

 

It takes a moment for Seokmin to burst into a peal of laughter, Soonyoung falling to his knees, hand over his heart. Jun joins in, and his laughter is contagious, Wonwoo breaking into a smile.

 

A quick trip to the gift shop—glow stickers acquired, one now on Seokmin’s forehead—and they head to the main attraction. Much like a movie theatre, only round, they’re seated in the covered observatory in time for a sound and light show of the galaxy. Wonwoo’s seen this before, many times, but watching the stars reflect in Jun’s eyes is like watching it all over again. A thousand artificial lights burst overhead and Wonwoo can’t help but lean in to kiss him, the universe as witness. Black holes, nebula, and the misty milky way are far more captivating today than they ever have been. 

 

There is something about the infinite mysteries of space that make Wonwoo confident. After the show, in the moment just before the lights are turned on, Wonwoo turns to Jun. “You know when you asked me what we were, the other day?”

 

“Hmm?” Jun’s eyes are glassy, his cheeks pink, and there’s a settled smile of contentment on his face. 

 

“Well, I think that I might—”

 

And it would have been perfect, because _god_ is this man handsome beneath the light of the stars, the moon, the planets, and to hell if Wonwoo’s going to let one little niggling feeling get in the way of the rest of his life. But then Jun’s phone rings. Soonyoung imitates the voice that said they should turn cell phones off, but Jun doesn’t seem to hear him. He just stares down at the number that’s calling, face draining of colour.

 

“What is it?” A million scenarios file through Wonwoo's head.  _Is it Minghao? Jisoo? Jun's parents?_

 

“It’s the guy, from the audition on Wednesday. Shit Wonwoo, what do I do?” Jun glances up and then back down, lip between his teeth. “I didn’t think he’d ring so soon—”

 

“Answer it,” Wonwoo urges, though the pit in his stomach screams _don’t._ “But don’t—”

 

“Get your hopes up. Yeah, I know, I know.” Jun waves him away, caught up in nerves. And so, he gets up and he shuffles past Wonwoo’s legs, giving his knee a gentle tap in passing. Seokmin and Soonyoung get up too, babbling about the wonders of the universe, Wonwoo can’t bring himself to join them.

 

Because in that moment, when the call comes in, Wonwoo realises what felt so wrong. It was, this whole time, the urgency.

 

Jun was trying to pack their entire existence with such life, squeeze so much into such a small space of time. Wonwoo never stopped to wonder why, but maybe, just maybe, it was because he knew the time would be short.

 

Maybe Jun asked if he loved writing music because he wanted Wonwoo to have something to go back to if he left. Maybe when Jun said he wouldn’t hold Wonwoo back, he wanted Wonwoo to say it too. But as selfish and heartless as it is, that would have been a lie, because Wonwoo wants nothing more than to stay forever in these moments. 

 

When Jun comes to find him later on, a smile lighting his unearthly face, the words _I love you_ turn to ash on Wonwoo’s tongue. If love is letting someone leave to follow a dream, he wants no part in it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, I know, I'm cruel and I'm sorry. We are nearing the end, one more chapter to go, I'm thinking. But will it be true lala land-esque fashion and the two go their separate ways?!
> 
> Sorry for the late update again, I've been distracted by a certain twitter mystery...


	6. To Stay or Go

If Jun, on the first day at university, had never taken the elevator to his class, he’d never have met Minghao. He may have been a less traumatized version of himself considering they were stuck in the lift for over an hour, but Jun will never regret choosing to forgo the stairs.

 

If Jun hadn't met Minghao, he would have sat on his own that night in his dorm. Instead, they tagged along to the international mixer, and met the lanky but kind American kid who stopped Jun’s drink getting spiked.

 

If Jun hadn’t met Joshua, he’d be dead a million times over. More than that, he’d never have been forced to sign up to the history society. He’d never have been taken to an exhibit at the museum on Iron Age archaeology, where, after staring at a pot for more than five minutes, a student had moved in beside him and said “well, this is all very _ground-breaking_.”

 

If he’d never met Soonyoung, Jun’s life would have been a hell of a lot less exciting. That, makes no past decision up to this point a regret.

 

It does, however, put pressure on his next decision not to be a regret also. The butterfly effect is a scary thing, and if he takes the wrong path, is that his life over? His chances at love? His chances at a career? Vanished at the wrong turn? 

 

“Well, if it isn’t Mr Gene Kelly himself!” Seungkwan says as Jun slips into the building. With a flourish, the singer takes off the red scarf he’s wearing and puts it over the back of Jun’s neck, pulling him close. “Don’t forget me when you’re rich and famous, ok? I’m going to need someone to pay for my retirement.”

 

“Yeah, and I want to go to the Bermuda triangle.” Hansol agrees, shoving Seungkwan away. Seungkwan twirls and unwraps the scarf as he does so, sinking to the floor with a dramatic sigh. Hansol offers a hand to Jun, feigning professionalism. “It feels like just yesterday I was showing you the cleaning closet. Now you’re all grown up—”

 

“Our child!” Seungkwan wails, grabbing at Hansol’s foot. “I’m so proud. Go off into the world, follow your dreams!”

 

“And road signs. They’re important too.”

 

“Pshh,” Jun pushes Hansol’s hand away and throws them both a quizzical look, a little taken aback at how they could even know _already_. It makes him feel uncomfortable, for some reason, more than that, somewhat ashamed. “What is this? I’m not going off to war. Anyway, who said I’m lea—”

 

“Sorry!” There are arms around Jun’s waist before he can finish. Seokmin’s chin comes to rest on his shoulder. Jun drops his bag in surprise, realising he’s barely got within ten steps of the entrance. “I had to tell them. It was too much to keep to myself.”

 

“Oh—”

 

“Gah,” Seungkwan covers his eyes with a hand, _woe-is-me_ style. “What will we do without you?”

 

Hansol grins as he watches Jun attempt to untangle himself from Seokmin. “All the same things we did before him.”

 

Jun finally prises himself away from the hug. “All the same things only _better._ You would never forget me.” He dusts himself off and cups his hands beneath his chin. “So, don’t bother trying.”

 

“Ok, you ruined it. You can go now.” Seungkwan glares and waves his hand. He climbs up Hansol to get to his feet, rooting the younger in place. "Seriously though, well done. At least one of us got away, huh."

 

Jun feigns a soft chuckle as they disperse, retrieving his bag from the floor. _At least one of us got away_. The words taste bitter in his throat. As much as he wants to be annoyed at Seokmin, he can’t—it’s _Seokmin._ Not even Jihoon has the ability to hold a grudge against the singer for longer than ten seconds.

 

It was Jun’s fault in the first place for telling him and Soonyoung so soon. The words “I got the part” were smudged with a new and unfamiliar flavour, one he just needed to try out. Soonyoung’s eyes had flung open, glittering with the reflection of stars, Seokmin had dropped both his jaw and his planet plushie, and Wonwoo…

 

 Wonwoo isn’t here yet. The piano seat is empty, the bar eerily silent. Jun’s not sure he will come, but sending a text feels better than doing nothing.

 

1: 15

 

**_Night x_ **

 

 

4.34

 

**_Are u coming in today??_ **

****

**_Ana looks lonely_ **

****

**_[Image]_ **

****

**4.36**

**_His name is Basil._**

**4.37**

****

**_I know_ **

****

**_That’s a bad name_ **

****

**_I’ve re-named her_ **

****

**_Pi-ana_ **

****

**** **4.37**

**…**

**4.38**

**_Are u coming?_ **

****

**** **4.40**

**_No. Sorry_**

**_I’ve got something to do._ **

**4.40**

**_??????_ **

 

**_What is it?_ **

****

**_Are u ok?_ **

****

**4.50**

****

**_I can come over after work?_ **

****

Wonwoo doesn’t text back and he doesn’t show up, and Jun leaves the bar feeling worse than when he started. The thing that makes it so bad is that everyone else is _happy._ Jeonghan had bought flowers, shades of purple and blue to match his new hair. Mingyu had engulfed him in a hug and refused to let go until he said one of his lines. Chan asked for an autograph “just in case it’s worth something” later on. 

 

Even Jihoon had called Jun into his office.

 

“I hear you might be leaving us.”

 

“Well…” Jun doesn’t know what to say, because _yeah_ , he might be leaving. Yeah, he _might_ be actually doing this, and he should feel amazing, but he feels like shit because he doesn't know what to do and Wonwoo won’t fucking text back.

 

Everyone else is so happy, so supportive, and he loves them for that. But the one person that means the most out of all barely said a word when he told him. Other than a half-hearted _that’s…amazing_ Wonwoo had just stood there, let Seokmin and Soonyoung be the hype crew. Perhaps it was in disbelief that Jun actually got the part, like he hadn’t believed it all along. Like all those hours spent practicing were just for fun. But can Jun blame him? The ecstatic feelings he's supposed to have, he always dreamed of, where are they?

 

They’d walked to the bus stop in silence too. No, not in silence, Jun had chattered and it felt like when they first met. But then he hadn’t heard from Wonwoo yesterday, and Jun’s day was dampened by how alone he felt. Wonwoo’s silence could mean many things, but Jun’s learned to read the echoes of what he doesn’t say.

 

“You don’t want to take it?” Jihoon prompts Jun out of his thoughts, and too late Jun realizes he’s scratching the wood of the chair.

 

“No...I mean. It’s just…”

 

“Scary?”

 

“…yeah.”

 

“Can I ask what it is?”

 

Jun feels his face grow hot, feels his palm rub nervously against the armrest. “Just a secondary part in a new crime drama. Kind of like a call centre role. They want a comedic foreign guy so…I guess that’s me.”

 

“There’s no _just_ about it. You worked fucking hard.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“I’ll miss that, around here.” Jihoon grumbles.  “Seeing as nobody else does any work whatsoever. So, you know…if it doesn’t pan out…you’ve always got this place.”

 

Though Jihoon looks like he physically struggles to get the words out, it’s nice.

 

On the way up the stairs, Jun takes extra time to notice the pictures on the walls, the texture of the carpet—which is stupid, because he’s coming back tomorrow, but still—it all makes him feel like a haze has settled over his chest. He’s stuck between two forks in a road, one that says jump, the other stay, stay, _stay._

 

Wonwoo doesn’t text back by the time Jun gets home either, and when Soonyoung greets him with a _congratulations_ cake, Jun simply falls into his arms, trying to stop the tears from flowing like an unbroken stream.

 

“Shit.” Soonyoung says, because Jun doesn’t cry very much, especially not like this. But he holds him and makes stupid jokes and Jun thinks about what it would have been like if he’d never gone to that damn museum, and who would have held him then.

 

A little while later Josh’s famous hot chocolate has been made—with splashes of something a little stronger from Minghao—and a pile of blankets is dumped on the living room floor. Soonyoung makes half a pillow fort around them and sets up fondue, because what kind of crisis floor party is complete without melted chocolate and fruit.

 

“Fucking asshole,” Minghao says, and it sounds very familiar and very wrong to compare Wonwoo to Daehyun, but right now Jun just wants to put a blanket over his head and never speak again. Which is the exact opposite of how he _should_ be feeling, considering he’s just landed his dream job. 

_Dream job._ When he thinks that, the fog grows heavier over his chest, because he knows that should be the case. But the pinwheel of sparks and electricity that flowed through him when he landed his first ever play role is nowhere to be found. Can it be called a dream job if he's embarrassed to tell people about it? _Call center? Comedic role?_

 

“No.” Joshua says it for him and wraps an arm around Jun’s blanketed shoulders. “He’s probably just confused—”

 

“Who gives a fuck, this isn’t about _him._ ” Minghao snaps, making Jun flinch. “We love you just as much as he does and I’m fucking thrilled.”

 

“I think…” Jun’s voice cracks as he reaches a hand to his eyes. “I think he’s trying to figure out a way to leave before…I leave him.”

 

Jun can only say that because he did the exact thing to Daehyun. Daehyun didn’t ask him to go with him, and Jun didn’t ask him to stay, they were only fighting the inevitable, surely.

 

But what _if_ he had asked him. In another timeline, in another life, it might have been different.

 

“Busan isn’t that far away.” Minghao counters. “It’s only three hours by bus. It’s not like you’re dying!”

 

“Exactly!” Jun bursts, voice splintering the air. “Then why does it feel like everyone thinks I’ll never come back?”

 

They’re silent for a moment.

 

The silence holds more echoes than Wonwoo’s, and it makes Jun want to remove his heart from his chest altogether.

 

Soonyoung shuffles along the floor, blankets in tow, before coming face to face with Jun. They’re knees touch each other’s and Soonyoung grabs his hands tightly. “It’s a big decision. “I’d say ‘follow your heart’, but let’s be honest– your heart has a terrible track record. We’ll support you no matter what you chose. You know that?”

 

“Gross.” Minghao screws up his nose.

 

Jun gives him a watery smile, and Minghao sighs. Minghao sighs because Minghao doesn’t like too many feelings, he deals with them alone, not with others, so this is hard for him. Jun knows that, but he’s still _here_. “Listen, you’ve worked your fucking ass off for this. We’ve been here after every failed audition, every mediocre commercial shoot. If Wonwoo’s going to sulk because you’ve broken through this shitty competitive world, then I say let him.”

 

“Minghao.”

 

“No, this is the guy that won’t even admit you’re dating. If he got some gig playing Mozart at the Sydney opera house do you think he’d stick around? You’ve got to do what’s best for you, ok?”

 

Jun thinks about that for the rest of the night. He thinks while the others make jokes, while they pretend they aren’t concerned, sharing side glances and whispers in the kitchen.

 

Halfway through a movie, he excuses himself to his room and dials Wonwoo’s number. There’s no answer.

 

“I would be ok, if you went to Sydney. Shit, I mean…If you got a job as a pianist, far away, I’d be so fucking happy.” If Jun’s voice sounds cracked, then he lets it. If it sounds sad, then he lets it. He lets his words shiver into the night exactly how they form. “So, I need you to believe in me too. Even if it’s impossible, even if you are sure that I’m going to fail. Even if you’re scared just please, _please_ talk to me. Don’t shut me out, not again. I can’t…I don’t know what to do. I’m supposed to be happy but I’m not and I don't know who to tell. How can I be if you’re not? Just, ring me. Please.”

 

Jun sinks onto his bed and clutches his phone in his hand, thoughts and feelings a jumble of indecision. Part of him wishes he never met Jeon Wonwoo. Perhaps he never did, in another life. Perhaps he’d just walked right by the bar with dreams in his step and a false notion of love in his heart.

 

But the rest of him knows he never truly heard music till he walked through those doors. And it fucking sucks to think he’ll never hear it again if he leaves.

 

                                                                                                                       

0 **1.45**

**I’m sorry. Come over**

**I’ve got something to show you**

*******

 

 

A piece of music is never truly finished. There isn’t a perfect note to end on or a feeling of satisfaction as the final bar nears, one just simply stops writing, and the song is done.

It’s in the early morning hours, when the world seems off-kilter, and streetlights cast hazy pools in the distance, that Wonwoo stops writing. He sits back and lets his pencil fall, clattering onto the floor. Wonwoo expects a weight to be moved from his shoulders, expects his mind to be cleared, his heart to be light, but he gets none of that. Finishing the piece changes nothing, and his hands hover over the keyboard, lost.

 

“What are you doing here?” Mingyu had asked yesterday, takeaway cartons tucked beneath his arm.

 

Wonwoo hadn’t looked up. “I need to finish it.”

 

“Why?”

 

The tip of the pencil breaks so he throws it, harder than intended, at the wall. He grabs the spare tucked behind his ear, but not before Mingyu grabs his wrist. “Why, Wonwoo? Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your boyfriend right now?”

 

“He’s not my _boyfriend._ ” The snarl that’s been sitting at the back of Wonwoo’s throat is set free, and it makes Mingyu let go, let his hand fall to the keys. Wonwoo grits his teeth. It hurts to say no, it hurts to push everything away.

 

Mingyu knows Wonwoo too well. “He is your boyfriend”

 

“No.”

 

“And you love him.”

 

“No.”

 

“So why are you sitting _here_ Wonwoo?”

 

“ _Because.”_

“Because?”

 

Wonwoo bites his tongue, but it doesn’t matter, the words come out anyway. A whisper, ready to be carried away by the wind. “I don’t want him to go.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Then why the fuck did you ask?”

 

“It’s not your decision to make.” Mingyu has never sounded smarter than now, and Wonwoo wants the whole world to see that, for all the exes that treated him like shit to know who he _is._ But he also wants him to stop talking, because locked away in this room, with his song, Wonwoo doesn’t have to hear the truth. He only has to hear music.

 

“It’s not your job to make decisions for him. It’s your job to say I’m happy for you, it’s your job to try and make it work. You can’t control everything Wonwoo.”

 

“No. I can’t. I fucking know Mingyu. But for now, I can control writing this song, and that’s what I’m going to do. Ok?”

 

Mingyu’s teeth trace his bottom lip, and it’s the look of pity that rips him apart. “But what are you going to do when you finish?”

 

And that’s the question that never got answered, because Wonwoo’s _finished,_ and he feels nothing. All it’s given him is a sore hand and a couple of pages of messed up sheet music. There’s no clear path to follow now, there’s no right or wrong.

 

Life is made of nothing but regrets, countless hours spent staring into the darkness before sleep comes, replaying everything one could have–  _should_ have done.

 

It’s at 1.40 Wonwoo realizes he doesn’t want this—them—to become another regret.

 

So, he picks up his phone.

 

The voicemail makes Wonwoo want to throw up. It makes him want to take a hammer to his piano keys and smash them for thinking they were more important than _this._ The fact he was too wrapped up in his own feelings to think of Jun's is beyond unforgivable.

 

But he sends the text anyway. It’s 1.45, Jun will be asleep, but Wonwoo needs him to know he’s thinking of him _right now._

It’s 2.15 when there’s a knock at the door. Three soft beats, four loud, then six like a rain patter across the wood. Wonwoo opens it and Jun is there, heavy coat over a pyjama top that says _Give me the Z._ He’s breathing fast, his face flushed and eyes alight with energy that doesn’t belong with the stillness of now.

 

“Jun—”

 

“Your damn elevator is broken.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Just my luck, to be honest. Ours got fixed yesterday but I’ve still got to climb nine fucking flights of stairs.”

 

“Jun-”

 

“I don’t even know if you’re worth the exercise. “

 

“I’m not. At the moment, I’m not worth it.” Wonwoo says quickly, fitting words between Jun’s. He feels as breathless as Jun looks, because suddenly, he’s nervous. It’s not like the first time they met, he wasn’t nervous then. More like the first time he played in front of a hall full of people

 

“Glad we agree on something.”

 

“Come with me.”

 

“Where?”

 

Wonwoo reaches for Jun’s hand and it reminds him of the night they went to the mountain, and how his feelings are no weaker than they were then, how he doubts they ever could be weak.

 

It’s 2.20 when Wonwoo plays from the very start of his piece, to the very end.

 

Sometimes music sheds light in the dark, easing pain like the song of a nightingale, and here the wistful note in Jun’s eyes hints that _maybe_ that’s happening. Wonwoo doesn’t get absorbed in the sound, not this time, he gets absorbed in the way it makes Jun feel.

 

At first Jun smiles, but It’s fleeting, like a beam of light struggling to stay alive as it falls behind wisps of clouds. Notes becomes curled hands and furrowed brows, they’re widening eyes and parted lips, it’s sinking into the chair and shutting out sight.

 

It’s 2.26 when Wonwoo finishes and Jun doesn’t open his eyes. Silence ends the piece, and perhaps that’s what Wonwoo intended all along.

 

“You finished it.” Jun says, words falling like stones to the floor. “It’s good. Really good.”

 

“It’s for you.”

 

“No, Wonwoo. It’s for you. It's fucking perfect.”

 

“What does it matter when there’s no one to hear it?”

 

“Do you need an audience to make it worthwhile?”

 

“No.” _I need you._ Wonwoo bites his lip, forces himself to swallow the comment. Another, just as stupid, rises in its place. “I wouldn’t go.”

 

“What?”

 

“I wouldn’t go to Sydney. Or some far off place. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

 

“Great,” Jun sits up, and his snarl of a tone is not the response Wonwoo expected. “So, what am I for even contemplating leaving?”

 

Shit.

 

“No, no…I didn’t mean. Aish. I’m sorry,” Wonwoo says, and loving someone is knowing when to say that. “I’m not good at doing what you do. I’m not good at dealing with my emotions. What you said in your message, I… _do_ believe in you, that’s what makes me so…”

 

Jun’s face doesn’t change. “Scared?”

 

“Yes. _Yes_ , because I know that when you start breaking through this industry, the whole world is going to want you. It’ll begin with Busan and end in Oscars, I _know_ it. And that’s amazing and I’m a shit boyfriend for not being happy for you.”

 

“Is that what you are?” Jun raises an eyebrow. “My boyfriend? Because you sure as hell didn’t seem to accept it before this happened.”

 

Wonwoo sighs and lets the accusation run into him, an arrow to it’s mark. “Ok. I’m just a shit person in general, huh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I didn’t want to fall too fucking hard Jun. You’re good enough that leaving was inevitable, so can you blame me if I wanted to protect myself a little?”

 

“Protecting yourself? From _me?_ ”

 

“I mean it obviously didn’t work—”

 

“I got the part.” Jun says.

 

“…what?”

 

“I’m telling you, my boyfriend, that I got the part.”

 

Wonwoo realises that this Is what some might call, a second chance _._ Either that or an exercise in improv. “Oh hey, that’s amazing!” Wonwoo feigns positivity but he’s ninety percent sure it makes him look like a serial killer. It feels false and raw and _wrong_ , like his throat will constrict if he even tries. “You…got the part? In the…drama?”

 

“You suck,” Jun moves and the atmosphere is shattered. He gets off the chair and comes to join Wonwoo on the piano stool, sitting with one leg on either side. “With all our lessons, I thought you’d get better at acting, but you _really_ suck _._ ”

 

“I _am_ happy for you.”

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

“I am!” Wonwoo doesn’t mean to yell, but he does, and it hits each corner of the room with resounding force. “I’m so fucking happy you did it, Jun, I really am because you deserve it. You deserve all of it—fame, fortune, your name on a star. And you should go to Busan and you should do what you love but I couldn’t be with you yesterday, or the day before, because all I want to do is ask you to stay.”

 

Jun blinks.

 

“And I’m afraid, if you say yes, you’ll resent me for the rest of your life. More than that I’m afraid you’ll say no.” Wonwoo’s chest rises and falls, and he can’t help but feel like his song. “So instead of asking you to stay, I’m telling you I’ll come with you.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m coming with you.”

  
“No, Wonwoo—”

 

“I will. There’ll be somewhere that needs a pianist. If not, I can do something else, anything else—”

 

“No,” Jun’s fingers find his and the touch dispels any knots in his chest. “I’m not asking you to leave your friends, your life, your _job_.”

 

“That’s not your choice. It’s mine, If I want to be with the person I love then I fucking will be. You said people aren’t temporary, you’re right, you’re not temporary—”

 

There’s a burst of colour on Wonwoo’s lips as Jun’s meet his, making the air disappear from his lungs. It doesn’t last long enough before he pulls away again. “Shut up, will you. I don’t _want_ fame, or fortune, or stars. Don’t you get that? I don’t want to act for acting’s sake, I want to act because I love the role. I want to act because the words mean something.”

 

Wonwoo shakes his head, mind caught up in those lips. “What are you saying?”

 

“You told me you compose because it’s necessary, not because you want to be a name in the hall next to Chopin. Actors can’t be picky, I know that. This chance might never come around again, I _know_ that. But I don’t want to settle for some mediocre role just because it _might_ lead to other things.”

 

“Jun—”

 

“I’ve done it before and all it did was make me miserable. It’s like you—when you play honkytonk tunes and elevator music, you hate it."

 

“Sure—”

 

“When you play music you love, music you write, you bring light and joy and sorrow to people. The passion is in your eyes, in your work, you transport people.”

 

“Well—”

 

I want to do that too, with an immediate audience.”

 

“Jun!”

 

“I want to perform in a play, I want you to be able to watch me from the crowd. I want Mingyu to finally ask Hao out and for them to watch it together and fall in love. I want Jeonghan to cry, and I want to make Cheol proud. How can I be happy without my people around?”

 

Now it’s Wonwoo’s turn to kiss him, and it’s 2.42 when the world falls away. Wonwoo’s hand rests below Jun’s ear, his thumb caressing his jaw, the other runs down his spine, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between them. “You’re insane, you know that?”

 

“I know."

  
"Why didn't you just _tell_ me you were having doubts?"

 

"Because you didn't fucking text back!"

 

"Oh."

 

"Everyone’s going to think I’m crazy.”

 

“It doesn’t matter what they think, it’s your choice.”

 

Jun smiles, that small, secretive smile. “You’re happy now, you snake.”

 

“Don’t do this for me.”

 

“I’m not. My dreams just have standards.”

 

The words are out of Wonwoo’s mouth before he can stop them. “God, I love you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Shit yeah.”

 

“How romantic.”

 

“I’ll write you a play.”

 

Jun pulls away. “What?”

 

Wonwoo laughs, because this is absurd, all of it. He brushes a piece of hair out of Jun’s eyes. “I’ll write you a fucking play. I mean, what have I got to do now my song is done?”

 

"Write another...one?" Jun suggests.

 

"I'll write you a musical," Wonwoo kisses Jun's temple. 

 

Jun's smile grows, as though dawn has come early. “Seungkwan would be pleased.”

 

Wonwoo groans. “We’d have to cast all of them if we cast one.”

 

“Why stop there? We could perform it at the bar, a _Seventeen_ exclusive.”

 

“Jihoon would love that. He could direct. Then he'll cast them all as trees."

 

Jun laughs and the sound carries dreams around a room usually so sparse of them, those eyes give life to a morning where nothing else seems to breathe, and Wonwoo feels young, and invincible, and boundless. In that moment, it doesn't matter what the future holds, as long as that laugh is in it forever, he thinks he'd be happy. 

 

It’s 2.59 when Wonwoo asks the question again, _stay with me?_ It’s 3 when Jun says _yes_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently one doesn't end a story either, one simply stops writing. Thanks for reading and all your Kudos' and comments, it means the world to me. Some of the side character's definitely have unfinished stories which I might do a couple of one-shots to if people want, but otherwise thank you so much!! Yay for cheesy endings!


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